Common Ground
by Poicephalus
Summary: Legend remembers very few names… but everyone is a hero to someone at least once in their life. A rather jaded, middle-aged Tauren druid makes a choice whose consequences quickly get out of hand. Cross-faction romance & intrigue!
1. An Act of Mercy

**Common Ground**

CHAPTER ONE – An Act of Mercy

One minute Pelcyr was rapt with concentration; the next she was gasping for breath, staring into the fading sky. There was sticky wetness on her lips and the world was out of focus. She couldn't breathe-

"_Pelcyr!_" Medarion was screaming her name but his voice was getting more and more distant. She struggled to sit up and found something braced across her middle, holding her with uncaring ferocity. She couldn't breathe. Black edges crept into her vision and she clenched her jaw, fighting unconsciousness, trying to see or to feel what was going on. All she could remember was watching the boys take on a young wyvern together, standing back to heal them if it got out of hand. But they had been doing well, winning, though the beast was young and strong. Together they could take it down. And then? And now?

She couldn't breathe.

"Medarion-" Beln panted, stumbling up the path after his friend. "Med, wait, I can't-" He bent over, hands on knees, gasping. He was dizzy from blood loss and altitude, scrambling after the panicked Night Elf on a path that was barely a path and strewn with loose rock and thin, twining roots.

"Maybe you should go on alone. I'll wait here-" he offered, taking the moment to sit and drink a swallow of water.

Medarion looked torn- part of him wanted to leave his friend and pursue his sister, but he couldn't leave the injured man.

"No, no. I'll not leave you. I can't- spirits, she can't be gone."

"No she can't. And we'll find her. Just, just let me catch my breath. I'll be useless if I can't move."

Medarion snorted. "That's a lie. Your role is to stand there and look like a big, blue target while stuff hits you. And while it hits you, I hit it."

"Ugh," Beln curled his lip, "too simple. Come on. Without Pelcyr, we're both useless."

Pelcyr woke to a cold, consuming agony. It gripped her torso from sternum to groin and she nearly lapsed into unconsciousness again. But she could breathe- barely. Her breath whistled and shook in her chest and when her rib-cage expanded, she saw white lights and her eyes rolled. Trembling, she raised her hands, closed her eyes and willed herself to concentrate. _Serenity_. She tried to find the soothing white gulf of peace that she drew on to heal. It was there, clouded with panic and fear and worry but it existed. She could use it.

Something rolled her roughly onto her stomach and she drew a long gagging breath to scream then found the pain simply too cloying to express. Serenity lost, she stared, uncomprehending at the rude bed of sticks and feathers and scraps of unmentionable debris she had been thrust on. Little chiming chirps approached and she suddenly realized what had happened: the fledgling wyvern in combat, it's cries increasingly more desperate, the sudden shadow and unknown source of pain- the little wyvern had been rescued. Pelcyr had been snatched up in retribution, or perhaps simply expediency, and brought home to their prey's younger siblings.

She was in the wyvern nest with the matriarch's paw on her back and two hungry babies eying her up from a foot away.

"Oh spirits no-" she managed, "Please no-" The adult pridewing growled encouragement from behind her and Pelcyr whimpered and felt tears spill down her cheeks. This was not how she wanted to die! She couldn't be this useless, end this young! She was supposed to grow up helping Beln and her brother, grow up to mentor the next generation of priests, grow honoured and old and someday die heroically-

One of the baby wyverns squeaked in surprise and they paused in their wary inspection of the still-groaning morsel in their nest. Pelcyr coughed, tasting blood and the next instant found herself flattened against the nest as the matriarch bellowed and fell against her. Pelcyr struggled to roll away, the wyvern's wings beating frantically, claws shearing at something the wounded Night Elf couldn't see. Light flared, incinerating the matriarch and part of the nest. One final flailing paw smashed into her cheek and Pelcyr dropped into darkness again.

This time when she came to, there was a gentle voice encouraging her.

"Come child, you are strong. You will not die of this. You are strong. Be alive." The voice was deep and female and accented but speaking words that Pelcyr understood. She wanted to believe those words, desperately.

"Augh..." she moaned, "what... happened?" The world was still out of focus; all she could see was the sky again and dark projections into it that were probably the tops of trees. The sky was too bright. She closed her eyes.

"Ah ah, now, we will have not of that, no, keep your eyes open, child. Talk to me."

"Everything's fuzzy."

"You were hit on the head. What is your name?"

"Pelcyr... Woodsgrace."

"Good. Have you any family?"

"Brother... Medarion. He... was with... me. Is he all right?"

"Hmmm... only you in the nest. I saw no other."

"He must have... got away."

"That is good. An elder brother or younger?"

Pelcyr wrinkled her nose. Dried blood flaked off at the action. "Younger. Must be... out of his... mind worrying now."

"Good brothers do that," said the voice.

"Who are you?" asked Pelcyr.

"No, not yet. First we get you somewhere safe. You talk and stay awake."

"About what?"

"Describe what you can see."

"I can see the sky," said Pelcyr and as she spoke, she realized they were moving. The woman's voice came from above her head, in the direction of their travel but Pelcyr couldn't see her. Pelcyr felt around with half-numb fingers and found rough wooden poles, the bark still on, twine and a soft pelt, probably wolf. She was on a travois, pulled by her anonymous rescuer.

Pelcyr's vision slowly coalesced into something acceptable and her narration of their journey grew more detailed.

"Its going to rain," she said, "I can smell it."

"As can I," said the woman. "I see a cave. We will go there."

"My brother..."

"I will find him in the morning if he has not already found us," she promised.

Pelcyr saw the sky close up with clouds and then the patchwork of treetops and then completely disappear as they entered the cave. The travois was set down and Pelcyr lay still, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom and her head revel in the soothing darkness.

A little glow bloomed as the woman struck sparks with flint and steel and the tinder caught. In the soft light, Pelcyr craned her head to squint at her rescuer. It took her a long time to resolve what she was seeing, both because she was upside down and because the knocks to the head had slowed her down a bit.

"You're not a Night Elf," she said, puzzled. The woman- a bulky dark smudge between Pelcyr and the fire- chuckled.

"Oh no, not a Night Elf."

"I thought you were. You're speaking Darnassian."

"Very badly, probably."

"Well, not that badly. But I thought maybe you were foreign or... something."

"No, I learned your language in my youth. It has come in handy. Now, I will help you sit up and bind your stomach."

Pelcyr tried to look down at herself. She could make out a fast and hap-hazard swathe of bandages- Pelcyr's own from her pack, she saw. "Stomach?"

"When it picked you up, it pierced you in three places," said the woman softly.

Then she knelt down within the firelight and Pelcyr's eyes widened. Her heart pounded but she made no other response.

"You're Tauren," she said.

"Yes," said the woman. Pelcyr stared. She was enormous- her biceps were thicker than Pelcyr's waist- dressed in battle-worn but clearly well-crafted leather armour. The parts of her not buried in layers of toughened leather were covered in sleek fur of unrelieved black. She was watching Pelcyr watch her. "I will not hurt you."

Pelcyr took in the detailed, inscribed armour, the pale scars on the Tauren's muzzle, the massive breadth of her shoulders, the worn, chipped horns and concluded that this was someone who, if she had wanted Pelcyr hurt, would have been capable of doing it bare-handed and blind-Jashided.

"Okay," she managed but continued to stare. "Why...?"

"Because you are a child and no child deserves to die as you were about to," said the woman.

"Th-thank you," whispered Pelcyr, "I am in your debt. What is your name?"

"Ironcore."

"My name is-"

"It's okay child, you already told me."

"Oh. My head..." said Pelcyr, embarassed and flustered. She sat still, feeling awkard and tense. Ironcore leaned forward and with one enormous hand, slowly pushed Pelcyr upright until the Elf was sitting cross-legged. Leaning forward helped her abdomen feel less painful. "I'm a priest," Pelcyr offered. "I can help you heal me."

"No need. Do not push yourself. You need to rest." And a swirling green light sprang up around the Tauren's hands. For a moment, Pelcyr was mesmerized by the rhythmiclly flowing energy, then she blinked.

"You're a Druid."

"I am."

"So you learned Darnassian from the elves in Moonglade."

"I did."

"Um," said Pelcyr, eyes sliding shut. The green glow twined around her in gentle tides and Pelcyr felt herself growing more relaxed. Her stomach barely hurt at all now.

Ironcore caught the elf when she fainted.

"This has turned out to be a singularly horrific experience," said Beln between chattering teeth. He figured he was at the moment more dead than alive, more asleep than awake and more mud than Draenei. The clouds had conspired to eviscerate themselves on the mountains about an hour ago and drop a gutload of torrential rain on the two injured adventurers. Medarion plugged onwards, eyes fixed in a wide, unseeing stare. Beln, the more grievously wounded of the two, was now limping heavily despite the linen bandage wrapped tightly around his calf.

"I won't leave her here," said Medarion. His voice was a searching monotone.

"No, we won't but we must rest."

"She's out here somewhere, all alone and hurt. She's my only sister. If she has to- to die, then she should at least be with me."

"Hey," said Beln, more gently, "She won't die. Pelcyr is tough. She's got a cool head and more importantly she can heal herself. We'll find her."

"We'll find her," echoed Medarion and continued doggedly up the slope. At the crest of the ridge, he stopped. The rain was turning the ground at their feet into mud. Beln slipped on his bad leg and went down onto his knees with a grunt and a colourful curse.

"Beln-" said Medarion, with worry in his voice.

"I'll be fine," the warrior replied, hobbling back into a standing position. He leaned heavily on his sheathed longsword, trying to ignore what the dirt and the water were doing to the beautifully oiled scabbard. "The matriarch flew- look." He pointed and Medarion sighted along his arm with precise Night Elf eyes.

"The nest. But-"

"When your sister gets mad, she gets _blazing_ mad!" Most of the nest was missing, charred and falling apart to the ground below. As they moved closer, they could see all that was left of the wyvern matriarch: half the pelvis, charred crisp with one blackened leg still attached, an arm's length of the spine and the tail, which was curiously intact and unburnt. A fistful of singed brown hair remained near the front end of the mess to mark where the beast's head had been.

"Wow," was all Medarion said. Beln squinted at the ground, trying to discern anything else through driving rain and bouts of shivering. Medarion poked around in the mud near the dead pridewing.

"There could be a set of tracks here, but the rain's pummeled all the detail out of them."

"At least we know she walked away from it."

"Walked, yes, but how far? Something like that- I didn't even know she was capable of that kind of power. Afterwards she would have passed out from fatigue. If she did walk, she can't have gone far." Medarion was already up and circling the scene, scrutinizing the ground and raising his head to gaze into the rain.

"Pel's smart. She'd know what that kind of move would do. She'd look for somewhere to hole up and recover."

"A cavern?"

"Or at least a big tree."

Their searching took on a fresh angle and the men spiralled out relentlessly from the nest, pushing aside branches, peering into holes and behind boulders.

"Damn this rain!" Medarion said bitterly. "I can hardly see ten feet in front of me! She could be here and we'd never even see her! I could be missing her by an arm's length!"

Beln plodded ahead, bleary-eyed and bone-cold. A sense of dire urgency was beginning to permeate his brain. "Medarion, I have to rest. I can't feel my right leg."

The Night Elf whirled. "What? You didn't say anything-"

"I didn't think it was this serious," said the warrior in a strained voice. "I've got to rest."

"Yes. Here, lean on me." Medarion struggled to haul Beln's arm over his shoulders and squared his feet to accept the Draenei's weight as Beln's leg gave out completely. The warrior swore again but his speech was clumsy and garbled. "Dammnit," muttered Medarion. "We passed a little crevice just a couple minutes ago. It'll do."

The crevice was just that: enough of a space to squeeze two broad-shouldered men and a tiny fire into and keep them all out of the elements. Neither of them could lie down and as soon as Medarion had the fire going, Beln slumped against the wall in exhausted slumber.

The young Night Elf man stared out into the storm and hoped his sister had found refuge somewhere, alive.

Pelcyr woke to songbirds and a shaft of early sun splashed across her legs like a blanket. She felt a bit fuzzy-headed but so very comfortable. There was the smell of wood smoke and something pleasant cooking. When was the last time she'd had someone else make her breakfast? Pelcyr couldn't remember. Slowly, carefully, she eased herself up, legs straight out before her, leaning back on her hands.

Ironcore knelt by the fire, stirring something in a pot.

"Good morning," said the Tauren, in mellow, unaccented Common. Pelcyr experimentally raised one hand and scratched gingerly at the blood mat in her hair.

"How many languages do you speak?" she asked with a tiny grin.

"Five," said the druid and sniffed at the contents of the pot. "Porridge?"

"I was just trying to think of the last time anyone made me breakfast. I couldn't. Now there's a Tauren making me porridge."

The Tauren in question gave a throaty chuckle. "Don't be too impressed. The nice smell it's giving off is just because I have to mask my terrible cooking skills with delicious spices." She used a battered metal spoon to scoop some of the meal into a bowl and brought it to Pelcyr. "Eat this. I am going to look for your lost men. If something dangerous comes by while I am gone, you can use the red bottle in that corner as a distraction and then escape."

Pelcyr looked across the cavern to the bottle. It appeared innocent enough.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Immolation Oil," Ironcore replied. "Throw it and run." Pelcyr ate- no, Ironcore was not the world's greatest cook but the spices _were_ delicious- and watched as her rescuer donned the rest of her armour and shouldered a mace taller and heavier than Pelcyr herself. The druid nodded and was gone.

"Unbelievable," she murmured to herself.

Ironcore paused on the ledge below the cavern. The storm of the previous night had broken near dawn and left the valley sparkling and clean. It had also rendered the unvegetated portions of the mountainsides very treacherous. With a sigh, the druid dug her toes into the mud and attempted not to slide all the way down on her tail.

Once in the valley, she didn't have to go far before she recognized despairing voices. They were speaking Common, one with the distinctly genteel Night Elf accent and one with something more flambouyant and rough. She stopped, listened, considered and picked her way through the puddles and debris towards the two.

"Do what you were doing last night," said the Draenei. He was leaning against the boulder behind him, putting all his weight on his left foot. There was more red than white to the bandage around his calf. "Work in a spiral, starting with the nest."

The Night Elf he was addressing continued to cast about himself with no sense of reason, panicked and over-wrought.

"What if she fainted? There was so much water- what if she-"

"Medarion!" bellowed the Draenei and whacked his open palm against the rock behind him, "Stop it! _Look_ for her and don't give up til you find her! I'm not going- oh Twisting Nether, just when I thought this day couldn't get any worse…"

Ironcore continued to amble toward the pair, who were now frozen mid-decision. Did they stand their ground against her and inevitablly lose? Would the Night Elf run and leave his friend to save himself?

"I mean you no harm," she said in Common and stopped a sufficient distance from them that when she unshouldered the mace and dropped it (one-handed) to the ground beside her, they cautiously straightened out of their respective half-crouches. The Draenei couldn't hold any sort of passable defensive stance, thought he was trying, and the Night Elf looked too bothered to attempt it.

"If you are looking for a young Night Elf woman named Pelcyr, then be assured she is safe."

At that, the Night Elf half-turned his head to eye her with bald suspicion, but the Draenei fell to his knees with a exclamation of relief.

"Please," he said, "please be telling the truth."

"I have nothing to gain by lying or hurting either of you. Come, I'll take you to her. It looks like her night was considerably more comfortable than yours."

The two men exchanged a wary look. The Elf approached slowly, weariness and mistrust showing in every motion.

"If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn't bother with some elaborate lie to lure you away from the safety of your broken rock."

The Draenei gave a sharp yip of laughter and began the arduous process of levering himself up-right, using his sword. Ironcore approached them, leaving her mace in the mud, and held out a hand to the limping warrior.

"Save your weapon for warfare," she said. He seized her forearm and she did the same, single-handedly supporting his weight while he adjusted himself.

"Great spirits," he muttered to himself. He couldn't close his hand around her forearm and her grip on his was obviously calculated to support but not crush. Beln had seen Taurens before, mostly from afar, had even fought a young bull when they had surprised each other in Ashenvale, but he had never been this close to a trained adult. As she helped him stand and then guided his arm around her waist, he couldn't help but feel... rather un-manned.

"How did you find her?" asked Medarion. His wounds seemed mostly superficial and his drive to find his sister was out-competing the need for rest at the moment. Ironcore turned her head, chin brushing the crest of the Draenei's horns.

"I was on the ridge above when I saw the pridewing bring her into the nest."

"So you did that to the wyvern."

"Yes, I'm afraid."

"Afraid?"

"She had two young."

There was a long silence.

"Where are they now?" asked Medarion.

"In my backpack, in the cave with your sister," replied the Tauren. "I'll take them to Thousand Needles to be trained as Windriders." Medarion nodded and caught Beln's eye. Beln quirked one corner of his mouth up and then looked at the woman.

"My name is Beln; this is Medarion Woodsgrace. Next time I hear anyone make cow jokes, I will happily knock their teeth down their throat."

"I am Ironcore," she said with a chuckle. "You can start with the Blood Elves."

Medarion paced along behind the Tauren and Beln, alternately biting his fingernails and combing them through his hair, thoughts racing. Foremost on his mind was the mantra _This is a trap this is a trap this is a trap_. Just looking at the cow's back made the hairs on his neck stand up. Maybe it was the cloak- something heavy and fine and probably enchanted- swinging from her shoulders that gave him a sense of forboding. She was obviously powerful enough to murder them both, so why was she helping them? Had she actually rescued Pelcyr? He desperately wanted to believe that she had and he wouldn't allow himself to _not_ take the chance.

Medarion's gaze switched to Beln's back: he had a short, simple cape that ended at his belt and was, at the moment, crumpled haphazardly by the Tauren's arm linked around his waist. Beln leaned into her whole-heartedly but if their places were reversed, Medarion knew he would have demanded Beln be the one supporting him, fatigue or not.


	2. Missing & Found

CHAPTER TWO – Missing & Found

Pelcyr had eaten slowly and set the bowl and spoon aside. She tried standing after a few minutes and was encouraged to discover she could get to her feet as long as there was a wall to steady herself against. She walked a few steps until she felt dizzy and sat down. Sunlight spilled in from the mouth of the cave and across the floor. Pelcyr would have liked to sit in the sun but she doubted she could walk all the way across to the other side of the cavern unaided. She could crawl, but that was patently undignified.

Against the far wall, something chirruped.

At first, Pelcyr thought she was hearing things and resolved to do a more thorough healing of herself once she was sure Medarion and Beln were safe. But a moment later it came again. It was a warbling, forlon sound and a bit muffled. Pelcyr finally identified that it was coming from the Tauren's pack, propped upright against another sack of Ironcore's belongings. The top of the pack closed with a drawstring and a flap, though at the moment the flap was left unsecured.

There was definitely something moving in the backpack.

Pelcyr forgot her dignity and crawled cautiously across the floor. The sun on her shoulders was a reward unto itself but upon reaching the backpack, she stopped. What sort of living thing would a druid keep in her pack? Maybe Ironcore had some kind of pet. Or maybe it was some hapless creature waiting to be the night's entree. But then why was it still alive? Maybe it tasted best fresh._ Do taurens even eat meat?_ Pelcyr wondered as the bag's squirming contents grew more agitated. Pelcyr turned to ponder the Immolation Oil sitting in the corner. Maybe whatever was in the bag had crawled in there during the night, unbeknownst to Ironcore.

A little tawny paw managed to shove it's way through the hole inside the drawstring and Pelcyr sat back on her haunches. That looked an awful look like a cat's paw. Some kind of cat was in the bag? There was another frustrated cry from the pack and it suddenly made sense to her.

Carefully, Pelcyr untied the drawstring and opened the top of the pack. First one, then another fuzzy golden head struggled forth. The two wyvern cubs sat there blinking at her, looking hopelessly lost and frightened.

"Oh dear," said Pelcyr. "I don't have anything for you... I..." She scooted closer and prodded the sack underneath theirs. She wasn't sure what she was looking for but nothing felt like food. One of the cubs gave a momentous thrash and managed to win it's freedom, falling into Pelcyr's lap. It hissed and tried to back away, but the Night Elf caught it gently around the middle.

"I don't think she means you to be eaten, but I don't know what she means to feed you either."

"_PELCYR_!!"

At the shout, she turned around, still holding the wyvern cub, to see her brother darting towards her.

"Medarion!" she cried happily. He threw his arms around her and the wyvern both and buried his face in her hair. "You're all right! I was so worried, I-"

"I thought you were dead, I had terrible thoughts-"

"I'm okay, I'm alive, oh, you're hurt-"

"No, no, I'm fine, it's just- what is that thing?"

They parted and Medarion eyed the wyvern cub.

"The druid brought it with her I guess," said Pelcyr, scratching the creature on the head. Medarion looked over his shoulder to see Beln and the Tauren enter the cave.

"She said she's going to take them to Thousand Needles."

"She did kill their mother. That's much better than letting them starve," said Pelcyr. Her opinion of the Tauren race was still murky but of this particular one, she was growing respectful. "Beln!" called Pelcyr, and stood up on shaky legs. Her brother instantly leaned in to support her. "Oh no, your leg! You can't keep out of trouble when I'm not around, can you?"

Beln laughed. "I'm only here to make you feel useful," he replied, then grimaced and let Ironcore lower him down beside the Night elves. "Thank you, lady. You are immeasurably kind."

Medarion caught his sister's eye and flicked a wary look towards the druid.

"Her aid seems genuine," said Pelcyr softly. "She's done nothing but help." He nodded and relaxed somewhat between the priestess and the warrior.

"Pelcyr, have you the strength to see to Beln?" asked Medarion. "I'm afraid I pushed him a bit looking for you last night."

"Let her rest," said Ironcore gently, "and you should as well. I will see to your friend." Pelcyr smiled and put an arm around her brother, idlly petting the cub in her lap. The Tauren knelt down beside Beln and put a hand on his calf. The wound was hot to her touch and the man flinched, though did an admirable job of hiding it.

"Ironcore," said Medarion, with what gravity her could muster, "we are grateful for your help. My sister would be dead if not for you. I don't know how to thank you."

Green energy wrapped around the druid's hands and spread to Beln's wounded leg. He watched it with some curiosity, then felt cramped muscles relax and the heat of infection slowly dissipate. Ironcore withdrew her hand and he leaned forward to massage the stiffness away.

"There is a task you could perform as payment," she said, raising her gaze from the Draenei. All three Alliance members managed to exchange glances and Medarion's eyes narrowed imperceptibly. "I did not come to this place to save your lives. I came in pursuit of another life, who still eludes me. No, don't look so worried, I am not chasing one of your own. This is a Troll, a child of a good friend, who has run away from his father."

"Why are you looking for him? Why not his father?" asked Beln.

Ironcore shook her head. "They've had a falling out, I'm afraid. An'kili- the young man- likes me, so I told his father I would retrieve him."

"Of course," said Pelcyr immediately, "we would gladly help." She released the wyvern kitten and got to her feet, wobbling.

"You're not strong enough to go anywhere yet," warned Medarion. "We will help, Ironcore, but we need rest."

"Yes, of course," she replied. "I will leave you here and return this evening. Perhaps with An'kili." She looked around, located her mace and a smaller backpack, and nodded to the group before exiting the cave.

"Oh-" said Pelcyr and stumbled after her, "Wait! What- um, is there anything to feed the cubs? They look hungry."

"Ah. There is some dried fish in the basket near the fire. And if you three get hungry, I have a loaf of bread and some apples." Pelcyr felt it was only right to bow.

"Thank you again," she said and returned to the cavern. She paused, seeing Medarion sprawled out already sound asleep, physical and emotional exhaustion already caught up with him. Beln chuckled.

"Your brother cares for you very much," he said. Pelcyr nodded.

"I think he forgets that I am his older sister."

Ironcore was still not sure what she was doing. Yes, it would have been a gruesome and horrible thing for anyone to be eaten alive and the young Night Elf priestess surely had many, _many_ years ahead of her but getting her to safety, healing her and then finding her comrades had used up nearly a day that she could have spent searching for An'kili. And Ironcore was growing more and more worried about the young Troll.

The longer he spent on his own in these mountains, the less chance of finding him alive there was. He was in far over his head. Running away because of a row was one thing- running several countries away into contested territory where the beasts would gladly murder him in seconds was something different.

She trotted along the bank of a lake, listening and sniffing the rain-cleansed air. She could hear and smell further than she could see and chances were, if An'kili did get into trouble, it would be loud. The creatures here avoided her or simply stood still as she loped past them. They saw what the young Alliance group saw- something they could not stand against and hope to win. Perhaps if fifteen or twenty of them grouped together they could take her down, but she doubted their organization abilities.

However, there was a kind of creature in this valley that did have the capacity for such organization. Judging by their relative silence, the harpies had not found the young Troll.

It was only a matter of time though, Ironcore thought dismally. An'kili liked shiny things as much as the harpies did. She had to find him soon.

Which brought her back to the three young Alliance adventurers nursing their wounds in her cave. What had possessed her? Normally she avoided Alliance unless forced into contact through necessity or circumstance, but she had never gone out of her way to help any of them. Once or twice, questing deep in wild places far from civilization, she had run across a gnome or human struggling with the local wildlife and given their foe a passing blast to confuse them. She saw no reason to do more. Fellow druids garnered a bit more attention but mostly they exchanged a greeting and went their separate ways. And now she had, in no uncertain terms, saved a life.

Druids valued life over most things, be it the life of trees or the life of their own kin and Ironcore was not an exception. However, as she weighed the time lost retrieving Pelcyr and company against the potentially dire situations An'kili could have gotten himself into, added in the value of his father's friendship to her, she wondered if perhaps some lives were more trouble than others.

Beln stood by the mouth of the cave, gazing down the mountainside. Since crashing on Azeroth with the rest of his people, the young Draenei had struggled to make sense of the craziness around him. He kept himself in good spirits by exploring, marveling at the vast and varied new world, and throwing himself into any task he was given with great enthusiasm. Joining the novice ranks of the Hand of Argus to fight against the Blood Elves and their Horde allies had given him a sense of purpose but his encounters with Horde members had, until now, been straight forward. You meet them, you fight them, you leave.

When he had surprised a young Taruen bull in Ashenvale, he had eventually over-powered the massive creature after a long, wearisome battle. During the fight, he had been amazed at the other man's agility and the calm, calculating way he held his own. His knowledge of the Tauren race was vague- only that they were simple people, tribal and very close to the earth, being druidic and shamanistic both. But aside from that, he knew nothing. The young bull had appeared more beast than rational creature, but acted more rational in battle than some Draenei Beln knew. This Tauren woman- or did they call the females cows?- appeared somewhat less bestial with her fine armour and soft voice, but she still sported the long muzzle and fur of an animal.

Beln was having a hard time rationalizing it all, so he went looking for something to eat.

When Ironcore returned to the cave that night, there was a fire going and food cooking. The wyvern kittens were passed out in her backpack, tended by Pelcyr. Medarion was awake, but lying down. Beln was cooking dinner. All three looked up as she entered.

"Are you feeling better?" she asked, to no one in particular.

"Very much," replied Beln with a broad smile. "I won't even have a scar to brag about." He stepped away from the campfire and did some kind of hopping, lunging, hip-shaking dance. She watched his hooves and noted there was a little hesitation in his steps.

"Are you still stiff?" she asked and approached.

"Ah, not so much from the wound. That has healed well."

"But you're limping."

"It's nothing really, just, uh... a rock." He looked awkward admitting it and Ironcore couldn't understand why. He had hooves, like her. She got pebbles or balls of ice stuck in the cleft between her toes sometimes; he must as well.

"Sit down," she said. He obeyed, crooking his good leg underneath himself and curling his heavy, armoured tail to one side. Ironcore sat down in front of him and took his hoof in one hand, pulling a small metal implement from a pouch at her waist.

"It seems silly but I never thought to bring a pick with me," he said. Pelcyr looked over. He sounded nervous. Ironcore peered at his hoof, flicked the pick and a small pebble plopped to the floor. The two Night Elves watched, bemused.

"Take this," she said, offering him the tool. Beln took it from her, examined it and smiled. Pelcyr saw the Tauren's mouth twitch in response. Beln's craggy features were naturally stern, hardly reflective of his true personality until he smiled. Once he did, it was hard not to respond in kind. Ironcore moved to inspect the cooking food.

"Greasy. Is it a duck?"

"Yes," said Pelcyr, "it flew by the cave. Medarion shot it."

"A hunter?" said the Tauren. "Without a companion?"

"A mage," said Medarion.

"Ah. So it was partially cooked when it went into the pot."

Beln sniffed with disapproval. "I wouldn't call it 'cooked' exactly."

Medarion had slept most of the previous day away and retired early that night. He refused any magical assistance from his sister or the Tauren and instead let his strength rebuild naturally.

Now he picked his way upslope on nimble feet, fully restored. Beln cursed and scrabbled on the loose shale behind him. Pelcyr had offered to join Ironcore in searching the far side of the canyon, so Medarion and Beln had taken up the near side, much to Beln's dismay.

"The other wall isn't any different," said Medarion as the Draenei barked another curse at the mountain. "There's a goat path up here to walk on." There was the mad clatter of the warrior's hooves on rock and then Beln was standing beside him, frowning at the ground. "Oh by Elune! It's not that bad!"

"What? Oh, no. Look."

The Draenei pointed and Medarion felt immediate chagrin for missing the track. It was barely a track at all, just a depression in the trail with edges worn down by the rain and depth filled in by mud. But the shape was large and two-toed- just right for a young Troll.

"For it to remain at all after the storm, it must have been made deep," said Medarion, crouching to peer at the trail. "He must have struck the ground with some force."

"Must have been running," said Beln and they both raised their heads to look in the direction the track led. The goat-path meandered along the canyon wall until it disappeared into a gorge carved out by a fast-flowing stream. The two men followed it until they reached the edge of the chasm.

They looked down. Medarion slowly raised his hand above his head and threw a gout of fire high enough into the air to be spotted across the canyon. He repeated the show twice more as the minutes rolled by. Beln sat down with a sigh.

Ironcore felt, more than saw, the tower of flame the mage threw up across the valley. Her ears pricked towards it and her fur stood on end.

"They've found him?" said Pelcyr eagerly.

"It seems so," replied Ironcore, raising her muzzle to sniff the air. Wet wood, sun-dried rock, the sweet scent of pine needles and the hint of decay that was omnipresent in wild places gave her no clues. She started off at a dead run with the Night Elf darting behind her. Pelcyr said nothing more, only concentrated on sticking close to the druid as they wove across the valley. To her credit, Ironcore seemed to be choosing a path that gave roving beasts a suitable berth, but Pelcyr saw she was holding the mace ready just in case.

The Tauren didn't appear to have the same trouble climbing the scree as Beln had, or perhaps it was just her momentum kept her from sliding backwards. She was beside the two men, peering into the gorge before the rocks had settled. Pelcyr skipped up the way behind her.

The streambed narrowed here, cutting deeper into the mountain. Anything caught in the current that was too bulky to make it through the gap got stuck and after several years of this, had created a bridge of sorts, comprised of dead trees and cemented with mud. The stream flowed on, less impeded, below.

Draped face-down over the bridge was a young male Troll.

"He must have jumped from up here," said Pelcyr. Ironcore's eyes were fastened on the form below them. She flicked an ear at Pelcyr's statement and snorted, then dug at the soil with one hoof.

"Ironcore?" said Medarion.

"Stay here," she said and began to edge down the precarious slope to the chasm. Halfway there, the soil disappeared and the footing turned to wet rock made slippery by opportunistic algae growing where the spray was most frequent. Ironcore slid in a semi-controlled fashion down the last few metres and went down on all fours when she reached the bridge to spread out her bodyweight.

An'kili was dead. She had known before she had seen his body, before she had come down to where he lay, impaled on a log, his blood washed away by the storm and the busy little river. Carefully, she felt along his cheekbone, then down his neck and under his shoulders. There were broken branches and sticks lodged perpendicular in the nature-made bridge; two of them had pierced the young man through his mouth and sternum. The one in his chest made a small peak in the back of his tunic.

Ironcore steeled herself and leaned over to gather him against her chest. Then she stood up, pulling him free of the wood. The tree trunks shifted beneath her feet. There was no danger of the structure collapsing yet but the druid didn't want to test her luck. She cradled the dead Troll in her arms and turned toward the slope.

Pelcyr hadn't realized the Troll was dead until she saw him. Neither apparently had the men. Now she covered her mouth with one hand as the Tauren turned with him held protectively in her arms and looked up. Without a word, Pelcyr grabbed Medarion's staff and extended the other end of it down towards the druid. Beln shouldered her aside and took hold, planting his hooves.

"Come on," said Pelcyr, "we'll pull you up."

Ironcore grabbed hold wordlessly with one hand, shifting An'kili against her chest with the other. She leaned into the hill and lunged as the three youths each gritted their teeth and hung on. Somehow they managed. Once she was out of the gorge, Ironcore's strength failed her and she sank to her knees. An'kili sprawled lifeless and sodden across her legs.

"I am deeply sorry," whispered Pelcyr. The young woman sounded like she was on the verge of tears herself but Ironcore barely heard her. Her vision blurred and she stroked An'kili's forehead with a shaking hand. His tusks were hardly visible beyond his lips yet.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," she murmured huskily. "He was supposed to grow up, grow old… have a family… have a life…"

Medarion had never felt more awkward. Part of him wanted to kneel down beside the weeping druid and comfort her; the other part remembered she was Tauren and this meant one less Troll in the Horde.

"Lady," said Beln, and did what Medarion couldn't. He put a hand on her shoulder and when she didn't shake him off, extended his reach around her other shoulder to embrace her and tilted his forehead against her cheek. "This is not how it was supposed to be."


	3. It Ain't Me Babe

**Author's Note: Thanks to all who've reviewed so far. :) I'm delighted to see this story has an audience! This is my first time putting any of my writing up for public consumption, so of course it feels good to know I'm not the only one reading it. ;) I intend to update every Monday. Enjoy! **

CHAPTER THREE – It Ain't Me Babe

Months passed. The trio of young adventurers had decided they would make for Stormwind, to train and learn and enjoy hot running water again. Their experience with the wyvern had made them cagier in combat, sticking together and keeping an eye on everything around them. Twice they foiled ambush attempts by local fauna and ate well for the days after. The route they chose was as straight as possible to the port city of Auberdine and the passage to Stormwind itself was uneventful.

Medarion chewed his fingernails and refused to let Pelcyr out of his sight. She was elder by two years, which meant little to the long-lived Night Elves, and he had always assumed she was stronger. She was not. She was fragile and on her own in the wilderness, he wondered how she could possibly survive.

Pelcyr smiled at her brother's vehemence to protect her but secretly sighed in frustration. She was _not_ that incapable. As a priest she was vulnerable, certainly, but not defenseless. And more-over, now she knew it and understood it with greater clarity than ever. Her near-death had made her cautious, but alert and calculating too. She would not be taken so easily again.

Beln never used the pick Ironcore had given him in front of the Elves. Though they had been friends for more than a year, every now and then, he still saw them take pause if he too openly flaunted his hooves or tail. It wasn't the sort of bald distaste that strangers or Blood Elves showed but it still meant that they sometimes mistakenly thought _eredar_ when they looked at him. He didn't feel reproach for it- they were his friends- but he did wonder when it would end. So he would sit down somewhere by himself and use the tool to remove an annoyance from his toes and wonder if sometimes the Orcs looked at the Taurens' feet and tails and horns and mistakenly thought something similar.

"Day-dreaming?"

Beln blinked to bring himself out of his musings and turned to smile rakishly at the human woman standing at his elbow. Ilsa Birdcatcher was a hunter a bit older and a bit more experienced than the trio, who had joined their group right away when Medarion mentioned something about venturing forth to Wailing Caverns.

"Not really. It's too beautiful here to need day-dreaming," he said, sweeping his gaze around the vast ramparts of the human capital. "Just thinking."

"About?" said Ilsa. She leaned on the railing and squinted into the sunlight shining off the sea.

"Pelcyr's going to end up decking her brother if he doesn't stop coddling her," he said smugly. He was waiting for it. He liked the siblings equally well but he could see that Medarion's worrying was doing more harm than good.

"Ha!" said Ilsa, "We should make posters, sell tickets."

Beln snickered. "I hope they get it out of their system before we're actually _in_ Wailing Caverns though."

"If not, they'll definitely realize how much they need each other once they get in there."

"You've gone before?"

"Once. I was looking for Deviate scales for this moody Tauren fellow lurking near the entrance. I got a few but damned if I didn't near lose my life for them. It'll be better going with a few more people."

"You went in _alone_?"

"Not alone, I had Rose with me," she said, indicating the wolf snoozing on the dock several feet away, "and a grumpy dwarf. We all made it out okay but only after the realization that we were properly screwed if we kept going. We got wiser and the Tauren got his scales so it was okay."

Beln silently mulled this over. It sounded familiar. "This Tauren, he was… kind to you?"

"I wouldn't say kind," Ilsa frowned, "but he didn't want to hurt me. Just wanted my help."

"We met a Tauren in the mountains," said Beln. He was still puzzled by the entire episode. Seeing the druid on her knees in the mud, crying silently for her young friend had touched him. When he embraced her, his sympathy was sincere. She had wordlessly wrapped the Troll in her cloak and they returned to the cave. That afternoon, she left, carrying An'kili's body in her arms. She had thanked them each for their help but her voice had been hollow and expressionless. At first, Beln thought she was just stricken by the Troll's death. Later, travelling across the ocean to Stormwind, he had suddenly wondered if perhaps she blamed herself partially for his death. If she hadn't stopped to help Pelcyr, could she have found An'kili before he leapt or was chased into the gorge?

Beln knew if it had been he in her place, he would have felt wretchedly responsible.

"Oh? Three against one? How did it go?" asked Ilsa, interrupting his thoughts for the second time in as many minutes.

"It didn't," he said, "Pel and I were injured; Pel got separated from us and we were trying to find her. The Tauren found her first. She healed us." He pulled up the cuff of his trousers and cocked his leg so Ilsa could see. "Nothing left. Healed completely in only a few hours."

Ilsa nodded slowly. "Druid?"

"Yes."

"Sometimes I think they forget what side they're on since they're more on the side of Azeroth than the Alliance or Horde."

It was never complicated with Samoj, though by all rights it should have been.

Ironcore had known him since she was a youngblood and as they grew up- he finding power in his ancestors, she in the earth- their friendship had changed. Inter-racial romance wasn't exactly frowned upon, but it drew curious stares and crude jokes. Ironcore had assured no less than a hundred people that, yes, she was aware their kids would probably have blue fur, horns, tusks, tails, hooves and manes of impossible-to-camoflague colours.

It had never gone that far. As they continued to grow, it became apparent that they made better friends than lovers. It was not a painful realization and they did what many couples couldn't: they stayed friends. Through their respective training and then the missions and quests, Ironcore and Samoj managed to remain steadfast companions. Even when Samoj fell head over heels for a smart-mouthed huntress and Ironcore began blushing around a new recruit, they could still be found together, laughing and sharing wild stories.

When An'kili was born, Ironcore was in Un'Goro Crater. Jashi, Samoj's mate, insisted they wait to name their son until the druid returned. And when Tothran had fallen in battle and Ironcore sat inconsolable by the mailbox, reading and re-reading the letter from his regiment, Samoj was there.

So when she returned to Sen'jin village holding Samoj's son wrapped in her own cloak, he looked at the misery in his old friend's eyes and wrapped her in his wiry arms.

"Ja did all der was ta be done," he whispered hoarsely. Tears slithered down his long nose into her tangled mane. Her shoulders heaved and they collapsed together.

"No," she whimpered, "I didn't. I-"

"Sh, Kafa. Dis was my fault, if'n it were anyone's."

"Don't say that."

"Den it not be yer fault either. It no one's fault. It da will o' fate only."

An'kili was buried, as was the Troll custom, and Ironcore stayed in Sen'jin village for the following week. She sat with Jashi and talked about An'kili as a baby, putting aside her own murky feelings of guilt and trying to impart to the grieving mother how much joy her son had brought. That was more important. She sat on the strand with Samoj and fished and told him everything An'kili had ever told her in confidence. She figured his father had a right to know and plus, if he were a spirit now and wanted revenge, maybe she would have a chance to apologize for not getting to him faster.

As she left Sen'jin village before dawn, Ironcore found herself juxtaposing An'kili and the Night Elf Pelcyr. She was sure now that she had traded his life for hers. She had tried to tell Samoj but he stubbournly refused to hear.

"Dis not yo fault, none o' it. Say yo missin' him, say ya love him. Don' say nothin' else."

She grudgingly admitted he was right. In all likelihood, Ironcore would never have found An'kili before the storm. She had been in the opposite corner of the valley and heading parallel to what appeared to have been his route. If not for her encounter with the Alliance youngsters, she might never have located him before the scavengers did.

"Does everything in the Barrens want to eat us?" hissed Pelcyr. There was a giraffe eye-balling their little group as they skulked from a scraggly bush to a termite mound. Pelcyr had always assumed giraffes were herbivores but the way it was looking at them and the simple fact that the land itself here wanted to kill them made her doubt.

"I don't think it wants to eat us," replied Medarion. "It probably thinks we're going to eat it." This was true, Pelcyr admitted. She'd never seen faster, wilier prey animals anywhere in her life. Even the bottom-most rung of the food chain was practically impossible to bag for a meal.

"There's a couple lions over here. It doesn't look like they've noticed us," whispered Beln.

"Got a hyena over here, lookin' at me," said Ilsa. They had happily accepted the hunter's company, as well as her friend Dyvaur, the grumpy dwarf she had ventured into the Wailing Caverns with once before.

"Think e's lookin' at yer Rose there, dear," snorted the dwarf.

"He sees us at any rate," said the hunter. She brought her bow up. "Get 'im Rose!" The big red wolf launched herself into a gallop, snarling a challenge. The hyena met her halfway and the two went down in a whirlwind of snapping and yelping. The hyena out-weighed Rose, though she was probably better fed, but the hyena was determined that this banquet was not going to escape. Ilsa let fly and the hyena stumbled aside, dazed. Rose pounced on it.

"I'm not eating that," announced Beln. "Who knows where it's been or what it's been eating."

"I'm with Beln," said Pelcyr, wrinkling her nose, "The last skeleton I saw those things chewing on looked _human_."

"Okay, leave it for the vultures."

The group continued on, as unobtrusively as possible. Aside from the rampant and voracious wildlife, there was also the constant threat of running into Horde. This was technically their land, although none of them could see why anyone would want it. On their own, they might have passed for a curious explorer or at least a lost adventurer. Five plus one wolf looked like a small raiding force and would likely elicit a sudden and resounding response. Pelcyr had now seen no fewer than five massively armoured, mounted and enchanted individuals, all thankfully from a safe distance.

Their plan, developed with help from the two veterans in the group, was to reach Ratchet and stock up on supplies and courage before entering the Caverns. Another half a days creeping along in tall grass would bring them to the goblin town, so long as nothing spotted them before they spotted it.

As the day wore on, growing steadily hotter and more oppressive, the wildlife retreated. The indigenous creatures were too canny to be out in the sun for longer than necessary and most retired to shaded places, where they idlly watched the group sneak towards the port. The only animal that seemed indifferent to the heat were the raptors. There was one savage, short battle when three of the garish reptiles ambushed them. Beln triumphantly acquired several teeth and claws from the beast he brought down single-handedly. Ilsa and Dyvaur hurriedly skinned, jointed and butchered all three.

"We should get moving before all the noise and blood attracts more attention," said Medarion. They did so. The sun began to slowly descend and the group found themselves with a decision: use the road or try to avoid notice by going cross-country through a Quillboar camp.

"There's five of us," Ilsa rationalized, "Most of the Horde you meet out here have similar skill levels and if they're out-numbered, they'll avoid us."

"What about the other ones?" said Pelcyr, worriedly.

"What other ones?"

"The ones that'll smash us into the road without breaking a sweat," said Medarion.

Ilsa shrugged. "Hope they're feeling gracious. It's that possibility or the certainty of a gang of Quillboar."

After some more arguing, they chose the road. Medarion stuck close to his sister, glancing around every few seconds to make sure the coast was still clear. Beln, elected to go first because he was most likely to be able to take a hit and survive, felt extremely exposed and vulnerable but they reached the margin of the haphazard little town right at sundown, unmolested.

Ilsa and Dyvaur went off to haggle with the tanner over their raptor skins and meat, leaving the other three to find lodgings for the night. Pelcyr, feeling much more confident now that there were squat, beady-eyed goblin guards on every corner, strode ahead looking for an inn.

The inn they found was moderately full. The goblin innkeeper was more interested in their gold than their race but the smattering of customers in the dining area all looked up with varying degrees of interest.

Pelcyr accidentally met the gaze of a Troll with flaming hair, who grinned widely in a way that made her squirm over next to Medarion.

"Just ignore him," said Ilsa, re-appearing with a satisfied smile and a bag of silver. "And lock your door." Medarion scowled and turned around to give the Troll a look just short of actually setting him on fire. The Troll's companions hooted and laughed. Medarion tossed his head and looked away with a little sniff. There was more laughter.

"No really, ignore 'em," said the dwarf gruffly. "Ya do that, they just get friskier."

The group made for the stairs, eager to retire after a long day not getting eaten. Beln paused. He looked again at the Troll and his companions- two more Trolls and a female Orc- and then out the door. Then he stretched over the counter, surprising the innkeeper, and nabbed a pen.

"I'll rent it," he said and set a silver piece in front of the goblin.

Later that night, after a too-short bath and some mediocre stew, Beln hunched down over a piece of paper with his rented pen. His roommates, Medarion and Dyvaur, were both already asleep but he needed to do this before he left Ratchet and he doubted they would be staying long after the way Medarion and the Troll had been looking at each other.

_To Lady Ironcore-_

_I hope that this letter finds you in good health and better spirits than when we parted. I am sorry that we met under unfortunate circumstances, but I don't know how many other ways we could have met, being who we are. I am glad that we did meet._

_After we parted it occurred to me that you might blame yourself in part for the death of your young friend. Were our positions reversed, I know that is what I would have been thinking. I don't know you well, but I do know your kindness and can imagine why this young Troll would trust you. Perhaps in the end he wondered why he ran away, whether anyone would find him and tell his parents what became of him. You did find him. If it gives you comfort, I believe his spirit was put to rest the moment you held him._

_May your days be long, and your hardships few._

_Beln_

Ironcore had not expected the mailbox in Ratchet to have anything for her, but she checked anyway. Her hand was shaking as she read the letter.

"Who dis from?" asked Samoj, twisting his head almost upside down to peer at the envelope and the careful printing on the front.

"From someone I met in the mountains," she said softly.

"In da mountains? Ooooh! Da 'lliance keeds! Which one wrote you dis lettah? Night Elf?" he asked hopefully.

Ironcore shook her head slightly. "No, the Draenei, Beln."

"What's 'e sayin' to you, make ya go all shaky an' misty-eyed like dat?"

"He's just wishing me well, in his own way."

"He go out of his way ta writechoo a lettah," Samoj prodded and tried to edge around and see what the missive really said. Ironcore pulled it in tight to her chest.

"No peeking," she chided. The Troll's eyes widened along with his grin.

"You a straaange woman, Kafa. You no like Horde men anymo'?"

"What?" laughed the druid, "Please, he's half my age at _best_."

"Wouldn't stop me, if dat be da Night Elf girl writing like dat."

"Jashi would stop you."

"See? You got no-ting to lose! Der's no reason to be racist."

"Factionist,"corrected Ironcore. "I don't care what he looks like, I do care what side he's on."

"You do? You confuse da young man. If dat be me, I be very confused. Lady save ma life, I tink she maybe good-looking, I send her smoochy letter an' she no talk to me because we leaders be tryin' ta keel each-odder."

"I don't think Chief Bloodhoof has anything against the Draenei prophet, really."

Samoj watched her and said nothing further, only continued to smile. "Ja do like him."

"I barely know him."

"So? Sometimes ya like someone ya barely know."

"Imagine with me, Samoj, what my life would be like if I went chasing after a twenty-year-old Draenei warrior."

"You catch him easy. He too young to know any good tricks fo' getting away."

"Duly noted."

"Carry on."

"Maybe I find him again somewhere. Maybe we sit down and have tea for a few hours. What on Azeroth could we talk about? It's easy when you've just healed the guy and his friend, then there's a bit of common ground. But in a normal setting, with no one bleeding and nothing attacking us?"

"Ah dunno," replied Samoj, now rooting through his own mail for anything remotely as interesting as his friend's, "talk about da wedder or some-ting. Talk about good weapons. Talk about yo hooves. You got dis common ground somewhere an' if ya don't-" The Troll shrugged, then mimed picking someone up and throwing them over his shoulder, grinning fiendishly.

Ironcore snickered before she could stop herself. Samoj seized on it.

"Aha! Ya dirty traitor! I knew it!"

"No, I- it was funny!"

"Ja pi'tured yoself doin' it, I know ya did!"

"Heh- aw, Samoj you should have seen the poor guy. He looked so distraught when he realized I was taller than him."

"Who _aren't_ yoo taller dan? I mean, aside from da Tauren men ya never look twice at anymo'. Ah… dat's why. You like em' short eh?"

"Makes it easier to tuck 'em under my arm and drag 'em back to my cave."

Samoj cackled. "But ya should at least write him back, mon. No guy want to be left hangin' like dat."

"You think he wrote this because he… likes me?"

"If dat be me, ya, probably. Ja coulda kicked his ass an' ya didn't. Dat's _powah_. An' you know dey say- powah attracts."

"If that's the case, I don't want to encourage him."

"Why not? Could be fun."

Ironcore sighed and rubbed her forehead with one finger. "Because he's twenty and I'm not, because he's Alliance and I'm not, and because the last thing I need at this stage of my life is some _child_ following me everywhere and getting himself in trouble, which I would be obligated to get him out of."

"I say yoo find him, take him to dat tea-house an' den ride heem til he breaks."

They'd known each other for nearly fifty years and he could still make her blush. (He was also one of the only people who could actually tell, given that she was covered in fur and where there wasn't fur, her skin was black as ink.)

"_No_," said Ironcore emphatically, "but I will write a response."

Samoj made several more imaginative, off-colour entreaties until Ironcore accused him of living vicariously, which he admitted.

"And I'm writing it by myself," she said, lowering her head in an unconscious gesture to show off her horns to the Troll. Decades of experience told him to back down.

"Fine den. You write. But I expect updates!"

"Go home," she growled fondly and gave the Troll a shove. Then, assured he was actually leaving her in peace, she re-read Beln's letter. Her first reaction was that he was just very thankful and very polite. She couldn't think of anyone else ever having written her a thank-you note for saving their bacon, but he seemed more concerned about her well-being than the fact she had continued his own. Was he actually reaching out to her or was she- and Samoj- just interpreting it that way?

Ironcore was quite aware that Taurens weren't regarded as the most physically attractive race on Azeroth by their fellow species. Most of them didn't care; Taurens had their own ideals of beauty. But the idea of someone not Tauren- not even Horde-side- finding her desirable was both amusing and interesting to Ironcore, not to mention a little flattering. Part of the reason she had pursued a relationship with Samoj was because _she_ appealed to _him_, a mix of mutual curiosity and xenophilia.

At any rate, she should tell the Draenei she was all right. He did seem concerned.


	4. If You're Going to War

**A/N: I hate Wailing Caverns. Which is why I sent all the Alliance characters in. ;)  
**

CHAPTER FOUR – If You're Going To War…

Killing Night Elves felt resoundingly wrong to Medarion. Nevermind that these Night Elves were deranged druids capable of shape-shifting into snakes with fangs longer than his hand and lived on the single-minded determination to keep their bizarre cult alive- it still didn't feel right. He couldn't bring himself to rifle their corpses to see if they had been carrying anything useful and stood by quietly while the others went through their pockets.

"Why are these guys carrying so much coin down here?" Beln wondered. "I can't think they see very many trade caravans."

"Maybe they picked it up from people _they_ killed," said Pelcyr. One of the more prominent Fang druids had been wearing a spectacular set of robes that surprisingly fit Pelcyr quite well. She held out her arms and studied the cuffs with a critical eye. They flopped over her long fingers by a couple of inches.

"I'll have to shorten them a bit when we get out of here." For the moment, she rolled the sleeves up to her elbows and hiked the skirts up, tightening her belt around the excess fabric. She didn't look silly exactly- Night Elves were hard put to look anything a shade less than elegant- but it made Medarion smile.

"Let's see if we can't find one wearin' some bracers that'd fit me," mused Dyvaur, the dwarf. He and Beln had been taking the brunt of the Fang druids' retaliation and both of their armour was starting to show signs of abuse. One of the Elves, in his snake form, had sliced clean through the dwarf's current bracer, leaving his dominant wrist exposed. It hadn't stopped him from stubbournly back-handing the snake-elf onto Beln's sword.

"Good luck," said Ilsa. "Maybe if you got Pel to sew a couple together."

"If that's what I must do," he said evenly.

"Dyvaur has a point though." Pelcyr put in. "We're all a little worse for wear. I could use new shoes too. I think I stepped in one of those ooze things." She lifted her left foot up to peer at the bottom.

"Do you want to go back?" asked Beln. "We could return tomorrow. It's not like they're going to repopulate the caves overnight."

"Go back to where though?" said Ilsa. "Travelling back to Ratchet takes a while and involves crossing enemy territory all the way."

"Staying in here, we're almost assured of an ambush. These heretics know we're here by now." Medarion frowned and flicked his gaze from Pelcyr to Ilsa. Pel was faring well; she noticed sounds and shadows, tell-tale signs of their nearly invisible opponents, more frequently than anyone else and was growing adept at keeping herself secure in the circle of her companions. The only damage she had taken so far was the part of her shoe the ooze had digested.

"There's five of us," said Dyvaur, "if we sit watch on rotatin' shifts, we'll all get enough sleep to be rested by next mornin'."

"I'm not thrilled about staying the night in here, but I agree with Dyvaur," said Beln. They all turned to Medarion.

"What do you think, brother?"

"Let's stay the night. It shouldn't be that bad. We can return to Ratchet tomorrow evening."

Somewhere roughly around midnight, Medarion was flinging fireballs while gritting his teeth and cursing his words. _Shouldn't be that bad…_ The first two watches had been uneventful. But fifteen minutes after Ilsa stretched and replaced Beln on watch, everyone awoke to the hunter's yells. Rose was in a furious stalemate with two enormous snakes, moving too fast for Ilsa to use her bow and four more Fang druids had snuck up on the group, deterred only by the savage battle between wolf and serpents blocking their path of advance.

Everyone was on their feet and armed in seconds. Medarion sheeped one hapless druid, who wandered off down the passage they had crept up. Pelcyr struck out at the nearest snake-elf with her wand, simultaneously shielding herself with magic. Beln and Dyvaur leaped to Rose's aid and managed to hack one giant creature off the wolf. That created an opening for the two Night Elves not already embattled and the narrow corridor was suddenly a confusing whirlwind of teeth, swords, arrows and sizzling magic.

Medarion dodged left to avoid a hail of green energy thrown by the druid Pelcyr had attacked, twisted mid-step and slammed a wall of flame down on the man. The other elf reacted just as quickly, skittering backwards, earning singed eyebrows and throwing Medarion a curse in Darnassian. Pelcyr aimed and snapped off a quick burst of magic at her while she was off balance, then slid sideways in a crouch as she returned fire. The siblings kept the elf pinned down while Beln, Ilsa and Dyvaur wore down his comrades. Rose had the remaining giant snake's head between her jaws, struggling to crush it before it's coils broke her ribs. Ilsa shot it twice to no effect and ran forward with a dagger to aid her pet.

As she leaned in to sink her dagger into the reptile's side, the druid Beln was fighting twisted aside to avoid getting the warrior's shield in his face and found himself inches from the hunter. Opportunity presented itself and he swung his mace full-force at the back of her head. Suddenly Rose was there, loosed from the snake's coils by a desperate lunge, all teeth and fury and froth. The mace hit her in the face with such force that her upper jaw crumpled back into her head with a savage crunch.

Even mortally wounded, the wolf struggled forward, dazedly attempting to close a pair of jaws that no longer existed on the druid's weapon.

"_Rose!_" wailed Ilsa, snake forgotten. She struck at the elf blindly, seething with grief, and her fist caught him a glancing blow on the neck. It was enough to knock him off balance. He stumbled back as she came on, and suddenly went rigid, Beln's sword sticking out the front of his chest. The Draenei's lip curled and he wrenched the sword clockwise, grinding on bone. The snake-druid opened his mouth but couldn't find the voice to scream.

"Rose…" sobbed Ilsa. She fell to her knees in front of the wolf, who still stood, eyes unfocused, trembling all over. "Oh Rose, no! Pelcyr! Healer! Help me!"

Pelcyr had witnessed the strike but had no time to stop it. She disengaged herself, letting Medarion step forward and direct bolts of flame with both hands, covering for her as she scurried across the floor to the stricken huntress.

"Pelcyr, please, please help her… please do something, please, I can't- I can't b-bandage that- I-"

Pelcyr laid her hand on the woman's shoulder. "Ilsa, I can't do anything for her. I can't heal something like that." Her voice shook as she said it. She could mend skin, contain blood, even fuse broken bones, but a wound so total, where the very structure of the skeleton had been obliterated to pulp, was something she couldn't fix. Maybe someday, but not yet.

"Oh- oh Rose, no…"

Medarion finally cornered his opponent and pounded her relentlessly with handfuls of fire until the snake-elf sank to her knees and succumbed to the heat. He made for his sister and Ilsa. Dyvaur had dispatched his corrupt druid and was wiping his polearm on the fallen disciple's tunic.

The second he turned his back, Medarion remembered the one he had polymorphed into a sheep. The spell held long enough to buy them breathing room, but not forever. Medarion sensed, more than saw, the shape already propelling itself into a strike from behind. He braced himself, unable to do anything more. If he hadn't stopped and thrown the Fang druid's calculations off, he would have found his throat cut. As it was, the man's chest slammed into his back and the dagger meant for Medarion's throat skidded across the bridge of his nose and high cheekbones. The second the blade opened his skin, Medarion knew it was poisoned.

In an instant, Ilsa had sent an arrow singing into the snake-elf's knee and Beln hurled a knife into the man's eye socket. Medarion and his attacker toppled to the ground together. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shut out the amount of poison that was still liquid on his skin and hadn't penetrated yet. A scar he could tolerate. Blindness was something he refused to accept.

Someone rolled the Fang druid off him, then Pelcyr's hands were on his face.

"Be careful! The blade was poisoned," he said hoarsely as the stinging intensified. The poison was spreading through his veins like wildfire, scorching him from the inside out. It quickly became so pronounced that his facial muscles cramped and he couldn't have opened his eyes if he wanted to.

As Pelcyr knelt to heal her brother, Ilsa slumped down beside the still-living, still-quaking Rose. She had learned how to treat her pet of minor injuries, heal infected bites and even splinted the wolf's foreleg once. Swallowing, Ilsa raised one hand to Rose's intact lower jaw and gently stroked the side of her face with the other.

"I love you, sweety," she said and drove the dagger up under the wolf's chin into her brain. Rose's trembling stopped and she sank into Ilsa's lap, eyelids fluttering once as she looked up at her companion with unceasing adoration. Ilsa fell over the wolf, sobbing. Dyvaur shuffled up beside her and knelt, patting her back and muttering praise for the courageous dead creature.

"I- I can't get it all out," said Pelcyr, with horror. She had been learning to cure poisons in Stormwind but they had left before she could perfect the training. "We've got to get out of here and find someone who can. Fast!"

Sneaking through the Barrens un-noticed with five healthy humanoids and one wily wolf had been a task the first time. Sneaking through the Barrens with five humanoids in various states of injury and grief was exponentially more difficult. Medarion couldn't see and had to be guided by Pelcyr. Ilsa was bereft, walking listlessly with Dyvaur's hand in hers.

Beln lead the group with all senses on high alert. He snapped into a defensive stance at every rustle of grass and yodel of wildlife, staring intently into the falling dusk to discern their pathway. The only place he knew that might hold someone who could help them was Ratchet- he pleaded with the spirits of his ancestors that there would be some Alliance knowledgable enough to save Medarion.

By the time they made it to the outskirts of the goblin town, Beln was seeing things out of the corner of his eye and snarling at shadows. When they reached the warm glow of the inn, he rushed forward, fatigue and anxiety forgotten.

"Please, we need a healer!"

At one table, a red-headed gnome nodded.

"Sure thing, pal! I'll go get her." The little man hurried upstairs. Beln turned to the group: Dyvaur all but carrying Ilsa, who was trying to hide her face in her hands, Pelcyr with one arm around her brother's waist and the other steering him by the shoulder, and Medarion, unusually clumsy, clenching his sister's elbow.

"Tialla Gladeshadow," said a rich voice. Beln turned around. The gnome had brought a tall, white-haired Night Elf woman. She glanced at Beln's companions. "You look like you need some help."

"Yes, we do. Medarion- that one- he-"

"He's been poisoned," she finished and approached the suffering elf. Pelcyr relaxed her grip on her brother somewhat.

"I can't do anything more for him," the priestess explained.

"I can," said the woman and raised her hands. A familiar green glow coiled around her fingers and bathed Medarion's face in soothing light. A moment later, he sighed with relief and cautiously opened his eyes.

Medarion had heard the woman's voice and knew from her accent that she was kindred but when he finally saw her… well, she took his breath away. Pelcyr still had her arm around his waist so she was the only one who knew he'd frozen to the spot. She was also the only one who was any good at reading his subtle body language and smiled to herself.

"I am Medarion Woodsgrace," he said, recovering but unable to take his eyes off her, "this is my sister, Pelcyr. Thank you for your kindness. I am in your debt." Tialla nodded.

"You're welcome. I would ask you to share a drink with my friends and I, but it looks like you've had enough fun for one day already."

Medarion wanted to accept her offer, but he could barely stand up. Ilsa had already been escorted to her room by Dyvaur, followed by a stumbling Beln, and Pelcyr was yawning. The crowd was also loud, young and verbally antagonistic, threatening to unfold into actual combat. Tialla smiled.

"That room's two seconds from a full-on brawl," observed the gnome who had brought Tialla.

Tialla frowned. "It may be safer to turn in. Perhaps you could join us for breakfast tomorrow?"

"I would be delighted to share breakfast. I've had enough brawling for one day," groaned Medarion. "I want to sleep and then I want to find the quickest way back to Stormwind."

"They came out of Wailing Caverns," said Tialla to her companion by way of explanation. The other nodded knowingly.

"Why do people keep going in there?" said Pelcyr, baffled.

"I heard the Fang elves are obscenely wealthy and well-outfitted for a bunch of hacks living underground," piped up the gnome.

"Not wealthy enough," grunted Medarion, resisting the urge to rub his eyes.

For the little group, the night ended tired and solem.


	5. Between You & Me

**A/N: Sorry it's late. I had a term paper that just refused to write itself.**

CHAPTER FIVE – Between Me & You

For the unruly crowd in the inn's common room, the night had only just begun. Crashes, yelps, threats in several languages and raucous laughter filtered up the stairs to the rooms above. Pelcyr grumbled and fell asleep with her head under her pillow. In her bed across the small room, Ilsa lay awake and thought of Rose; Rose as a fierce, un-tamed yearling, trotting through Elwynn forest, glowing eyes fixed on Ilsa, Rose relentlessly fetching a piece of knotted rope Ilsa threw again and again on the docks at Stormwind, Rose asleep by the fire, Rose drinking water from Ilsa's palm, Rose running, Rose playing, Rose scratching an itch… Ilsa rolled over to cry into her pillow, oblivious to the shenanigans downstairs.

Medarion, for all his weary muscles, couldn't sleep either. He was thinking of Tialla. She'd healed him, just like that, for nothing in return. She'd smiled at him when he opened his eyes and he found himself smiling at the memory. He and Pelcyr had grown up in a village deep in the forest, not cut off from civilization but definitely not on the main drag either. Some relationships bloomed within the little town, but most happened when the restless youth ventured out and beyond, encountering exotic new friends. Tialla was definitely exotic and new. Perhaps it was her hair. There were no families in their home village with silver hair. Medarion smiled to himself and eased himself over onto his aching side. He liked her pale hair. And her luminous eyes. And her delicate hands. And her mellow voice. And…

Somewhere in the distance, a lion roared.

The next morning, Beln was chosen to scout the situation and ascertain the possibility of breakfast. At the bottom of the stairs, he surveyed the damage.

Three tables had survived unbroken, as well as a good dozen chairs. A very grouchy looking goblin was sweeping a mountain of broken glass into a dustpan and the innkeeper was pushing his little spectacles up while he glowered at the bookkeeping in front of him.

"What," he snapped.

"Uh… I had nothing to do with this, personally," Beln said hastily, gaze rising to the boot-marks on the ceiling and the inn's cat, still scrunched into a join in the exposed roof trusses, looking peevish and vengeful. "Just wondering if there'll be breakfast this morning."

"Yes. Triple the price," hissed the goblin, some of his good humour returning.

"But we didn't-"

"Until this is paid for, anyone who steps foot in this inn gets charged triple." Then the little green man cackled. Beln edged away, uncertain as to why this should make sense. "Triple!"

"Fine," he replied and tromped back up the stairs.

"Triple," he announced to the room where the two parties had gathered to present a unified front. There were groans.

"Could be worse," said Dyvaur, "Could be no breakfast."

This point was conceded by everyone who had been in Wailing Caverns the night before, as the exertion was now taking its toll. The group ventured downstairs.

Halfway through a tired meal, a tall, angry and well-armoured Night Elf stomped into the inn and whipped his gaze around the room with blatant venom.

"Where is she?" he snarled. The goblin cleaning up last night's festivities didn't even look up.

"There's only us here and-"

"Was I talking to you?" snapped the elf, glaring daggers at Ilsa, who had the misfortune to try being helpful. Ilsa stopped, fork halfway to her mouth, astonished.

"Sir, as you can see there is no one here but myself and some valued customers you are being enormously rude to," replied the innkeeper with annoyance. One thing you had to credit goblins with was the ability to endure: their choice of capitalism over cooperation with either faction had enabled them to make a fortune, yes, but they also got yelled at and threatened by every other species on Azeroth. As a general rule, raised voices and searing words didn't have much impact on a worldly goblin.

"I know she's-"

"And sir? If you raise a hand against anyone in my establishment, I will be forced to call the bruisers."

"Why you little green monkey."

With that, the elf whirled with a rustle of fine fabric and stomped out the door. The group at the table raised collective eyebrows.

"Glad he's not looking for me," said Pelcyr.

"If he comes back, I'm going to use this spoon as a catapault. He's getting a face-ful of breakfast," vowed Ilsa. "I've never-"

"You! You damn MONSTER!"

The whole group, plus the innkeeper and his helper sprinted for the doorway. The elf had found his target, who had apparently been checking her mail at the box outside the inn. Beln, Medarion and Pelcyr exchanged looks of surprise. The Night Elf's target was unmistakable- tall, dark and moody, holding her mace with the ease most people held a pencil.

"Ironcore?" said Pelcyr incredulously. The outraged Night Elf ignored the apparent recognition from his kith and his hand started for his belt, which supported an obscenely massive, runed scabbard. Ironcore's attention shifted from the man to the on-lookers and she nodded to the group. Seeing her distracted, the Night Elf drew steel and launched himself.

He was decisively intercepted by the mace. The blow buckled his chestplate, knocked the wind out of him and sent him sprawling six feet backwards on the dirt path in front of the inn. He lay gasping for air, a look of pained confusion on his face. Ironcore stomped forward, looking more dangerous and formidable than they remembered, and pinned the Night Elf under one hoof.

"Who are you and what do you want?" she glowered down at him. The Night Elf squirmed but couldn't free himself.

"Your ugly head mounted over my fireplace!" he snarled back.

"Oh please, if I had a copper for every time I heard that…"

"You healed that damn Orc!"

"Oh." The tone of mild curiosity in her voice evaporated. "That was your doing, then? I ought to-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa lady, you oughtta nuthin'!" The goblin bruisers had arrived, summoned by the innkeeper's assistant. They inserted themselves between the Tauren and her opponent, pushing Ironcore off him and picking up the Night Elf. "Back off. You," the wiry little guard pointed at the elf, "I'm escorting you to the dock til the _Maiden's Fancy_ arrives. You're gonna board it and get yerself off to Stranglethorn where this kind of action is slightly more tolerated." He turned to narrow his eyes up at the druid towering over him. "You, yer gonna cool off or leave town. And stay away from this guy til he's gone."

"I will do as you ask," she replied but her voice was still cold. With a parting glare at the elf, she turned and stalked in the opposite direction- which took her directly towards the inn. The little group scrambled to gang way and she brushed by them without a hint of acknowledgement.

"Do you know her?" said Tialla, furrowing her graceful brow at Medarion.

"We've met," he said, unsure what the lovely Night Elf would think of their connexion to the hulking Druid. Tialla peered after the Tauren, quizzical.

"She's the one that saved you in the mountains?" guessed Ilsa, craning her neck to watch Ironcore seat herself at an unoccupied table and accept a pitcher of water from the innkeeper. Pelcyr nodded. "What a coincidence! We should go say hello."

The huntress blithely shook off the restraining hands of Dyvaur and strode over to Ironcore's table, heart pounding with excitement. She'd never been so close to a Tauren without drawing her bow and yelling for Rose to attack. Sitting down, Ironcore was at eye level with the standing human.

"My name's Ilsa Birdcatcher," she said and put out her hand, "I'm an acquaintance of Pelcyr, Medarion and Beln's. Pleasure to meetcha." The Tauren's glower slowly disappeared and she turned to look at the group of Alliance youths. Her lips curled up on one side and she accepted the handshake, gently engulfing the woman's hand in her own.

"Ironcore," she said.

"Thanks for what you did. If not for you, we'd be out a goddamn brilliant healer." Ilsa gave a little bow and returned to their original breakfast table. Most of the group followed her, murmuring exclamations and questions.

Beln sat down across from Ironcore. They watched each other for a moment, then Beln cracked a smile.

"You got my letter," he said. The Tauren nodded.

"Thank you Beln," she said quietly. "Your words were muchly appreciated. You're a very empathetic young man." Ironcore studied him. He wasn't nervous or reserved; he looked her in the face and leaned forward earnestly. She flicked her attention to his comrades and found five pairs of eyes watching them with varying degrees of coversion.

"I wanted to speak with you before we parted but… it wasn't right. I'm glad you read the letter. I wasn't sure if it would ever get to you."

"What did you want to speak with me about?" she asked. He paused and his gaze slid sideways. The corner of his lips quirked down.

"You were accessible," he said finally, "I never expected to be able to speak to the Horde- at all. But I can talk to you!" He looked up again. "You're older than me, you've seen all kinds of grisly, terrible things that the Alliance and Horde do to each other, and probably have every reason to hate us- but you helped Pelcyr. I don't understand why someone with your obvious experience would have done that. I want your perspective."

Ironcore thought this over for almost a minute while Beln waited. He suddenly found himself losing his nerve with every second he spent unanswered, watched by a group of puzzled comrades. He suppressed the desire to squirm uncomfortably and twisted his tail up against his thigh instead. Then Ironcore's eyes refocused on him and she nodded.

"Let's go for a walk," she said at last and rose. He scrambled to his feet beside her, clumsily, not realizing how anxious waiting for a reply had made him.

"Beln?" said Pelcyr, as they passed the others' table. He shook his head.

"It's okay," he replied hurriedly and followed the Tauren out the door. Once on the dirt path, he walked abreast of her, keeping pace with her long stride. At the end of the path, she turned left and began to climb the escarpment behind the city. Beln fell in behind her, putting his hooves in her prints. Her feet were bigger than his.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"Just up to the top of the hill," she replied. She stopped and turned, looking down at him, expression unreadable. "I'm not going to hurt you." Beln was a bit shocked.

"I didn't think you would, I just-"

"I won't. But someone else might."

He nodded and made to step forward but she wasn't moving.

"Beln," she said thoughtfully, "why did you write the letter?" He was having a difficult time interpreting her facial expressions, but he found her body language a bit easier. She seemed tired and on edge at the same time. She wanted honesty.

"I hoped you would write back," he said and for the first time in many years, he felt awkward. "I found you interesting and… wanted to pursue at least a vestige of connexion with you. And for the reasons I said before."

Ironcore smiled and resumed walking. "You have a way with words," she chuckled. They reached the summit of the hill and Beln turned around to see all of Ratchet and a significant stretch of the Barrens splayed out below him. To his right was the bay and beyond the bay, the ocean. To the north-east lay the arid red hills of Durotar and somewhere north of that, the Horde capital, Orgrimmar. He took a deep breath and sighed. Ironcore too inhaled deeply and stretched her neck out, then craned it sideways. The crest of muscle that stretched from the base of her skull over her shoulders rippled with the movement.

She sat down. Beln paused, secretly enjoying the feeling of being taller than her for once.

"Come on, sit," she said, "standing there looking down isn't going to change the fact I'm Tauren." Beln sat and found himself blushing, something else he hadn't done in a very long time.

"Druids can't read minds," he argued playfully, "how did you do that?"

"Years of experience," she replied.

"I apologize."

"Don't apologize. Everyone shorter than me likes it when I sit."

"Who _is_ taller than you?" asked Beln, leaning his elbow on his knee and his chin on his fist.

"Most bulls… Orcs," she said, then added, "My once-mate."

"Once-mate?"

"He was killed seventeen years ago. You were asking why I would show kindness to the Alliance when I had surely seen atrocity? Tothran died in battle- a good Brave wouldn't have it any other way- but I didn't feel hatred towards the one who killed him. We've been at war so long it feels like a job- you go out, you do it, you come home, hopefully everyone's there. If they're not, well, then that's just how it is. The war killed Tothran, not a Night Elf or a human or a dwarf or a gnome."

"You wish for peace." The admission that she had been married- mated, he corrected himself mentally- didn't shake him as much as the desolate outlook she revealed.

"I wouldn't know peace if it came. Someone would have to convince me. You- _you_, Draenei warrior- would have to walk into Orgrimmar un-molested and knock on my door to convince me. And even then," she said ruefully, "I would probably think it was a dream or a joke."

"That day is a long way off, I think," he said, solemly, then brightened. "You live in Orgrimmar?"

"I do when I'm not on the road."

"That's not so far from Ratchet," he mused.

"No, not at all. Why?"

"I could visit you. In Ratchet. It's neutral territory. You know, technically."

Ironcore cocked her head and studied Beln thoroughly for the first time since meeting him. He was broad-shouldered, well-muscled and only a head shorter than her, which made him about seven and a half feet tall. That was big compared to his Alliance comrades. He had strong features, a sharp aquiline nose, deep-set eyes and silvery-white hair he wore gathered at his nape and then plaited. His skin was a few shades darker blue than Samoj's and the four thick tentacles extending from his jaw were pleasingly symmetrical. He wasn't unattractive, as far as non-Tauren men went.

Some people would have squirmed under such obvious appraisal but Beln simply continued to sit and stare out at the ocean. He tilted his head towards her.

"Are you done?"

"What does the band on your tail mean?" she asked, arching her neck to peer beside him.

"Nothing," he said and twitched his tail, "it's just a decoration."

"I like it."

"You can have-" he began but Ironcore held up a hand, shaking her head.

"I don't think we're at the stage where we should be giving each other jewelry."

Beln laughed. "Yes, you're probably right. I wouldn't want Medarion and Pel to get the wrong impression," he said and winked, feeling daring. Ironcore inclined her head to him coyly.

"The wrong impression being that you're courting a pretty Tauren lady?"

"No," replied Beln, playing along, reaching over to put a hand on her knee, "that I would move that quickly with the pretty Tauren lady." Part of Ironcore wanted to recoil and nip that sentiment before it could blossom; another part, that sounded a lot like Samoj, was hooting and whistling. Ironcore decided to walk the middle path. (She is, after all, a _Balance_ druid- sorry, couldn't resist.)

"Beln," she said frankly, "tell me now if you're being serious."

He left his hand where it was and looked down. Her thighs rivaled the haunches of a destrier. "Is it crazy that I would like to count you as a friend?"

"Yes," she replied, "but I've been known to enjoy crazy things before."


	6. Azeroth Has Other Plans

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, faved, alerted or any combination thereof. I'm happy Ironcore & Co. have an audience. :) And now... science & violence! :D**

CHAPTER SIX – Azeroth Has Other Plans

"You're humming."

Ironcore leaned over and peered at the lines etched on the outside of the graduated cylinder. "I whacked a Night Elf in the chest with my mace this morning. It was extremely satisfying."

"I see," said Hrama, leaning patiently on the doorframe while his teacher hummed and measured ingredients. "That seems a bit barbaric."

"He deserved it _and_ he walked away from it."

"Well that makes it better…" Hrama was unconvinced. Himself being a civilian member of the Horde, he sometimes cringed when Ironcore related 'exciting' events to him. Adventurers seemed to have a different sense of humour than other people. The day she returned from Azshara with an arrow still protruding from her shoulder- but two sacks full of sungrass!- Hrama realized that though he was fond of her, he would never entirely understand her.

"He nearly murdered a young Orc girl for running by him," she said, frowning and ceasing to hum.

"Why?"

"He thought he could get away with it, I expect."

Hrama folded his arms over his broad chest. "Then I'm glad he didn't." He tipped his head to the side, examining the flask she was filling with crimson liquid. "Are we running low on cash?"

"Not particularly, why?"

"That's the sixth dilute health potion you've made."

"Eh… gift for a friend."

"Samoj or Jashi?" said Hrama with a smile. He didn't entirely understand the mechanics of Ironcore's relationship with two Trolls but he could see how much they meant to her.

"Uh… no…" she muttered distractedly as she released sticky red ichor from a condenser. Hrama moved closer. "Different friend. Okay, that's that. Let's get on with your lesson before Samoj gets here."

Two hours later, Samoj appeared, announcing himself with a boisterous curse and the smell of dried fish. Hrama sat back on his haunches, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. The worst part of being an alchemist's apprentice was the hours of sitting hunched over a bench squinting at miniscule proportions of ingredients contained in delicate glassware. Being Tauren made it even less comfortable and more ludicrous-looking.

"Com," hollered Samoj from the entryway, "I be takin' ja to lunch!" Hrama ignored the Shaman until he had sealed the flask he was working on and made careful notes in his ledger. Ironcore nodded and left him to it, turning to greet her friend.

"Thank you Samoj," she said and then pointed to Hrama. "I'm going to have to find a new apprentice soon. He's a couple of learning experiences short of being a professional alchemist."

The Troll laughed. "Den maybe I not stand so nearby, huh? Don' like picking bits o' glass out of ma skin too much."

Ironcore waved her hand dismissively. "If that was something volatile, I'd be wearing my helm."

"Keeds got to explore fo' themselves o' they learn nothin'."

Hrama nodded in agreement. "Theory is all well and good until you try to put it into practice without any practice," he said, speaking with the tone of one who has learned the hard way. _Most_ alchemists learned at least one lesson the hard way.

"Jashi says you were in Ratchet this morning," said Samoj, giving Ironcore a raised eyebrow.

"I was."

"Was you..."

Hrama got the impression he was missing something. "She went to check her mailbox," he said informatively. Samoj nodded.

"Come wit' me, Kafa. We go fo' private lunch." Ironcore ducked her head and Hrama got the distinct impression that his teacher was hiding some embarrassment under her pitch black fur.

Ironcore got to her feet. "Hrama, there's dreamfoil in the tin on the far right end of the shelf. Grind it fine and derive a tincture, then you can go." The apprentice nodded and watched his elders leave, arm-in-arm. He was definitely in the dark about something.

The pair walked in silence for some time, taking in the constant bustle and noise of the Orcish capital. A new recruit scurried by, trying not to look hopelessly lost. Two venerable Horde scouts on grizzled frostwolves ambled by discussing some mysterious aspect of blacksmithing. Ironcore and Samoj moved out of their way and bowed respectfully.

"So what you find?" asked Samoj, more serious now.

"Actually, he was there."

"What!"

"Yes. Apparently he and his friends had just visited Wailing Caverns."

They both paused to grimace and shudder, remembering their own vehement vows to never, ever set foot in the gloomy caves again.

"I went into the inn for water and he was having breakfast. He came over and sat with me." Samoj nodded and waited for Ironcore to continue. "I asked him to walk with me. We went up on the hill behind the city and talked."

"Talked?" said Samoj, evidently somewhat disappointed. The street opened out into the Valley of Honour and the noise level quadrupled.

She chuckled at his reaction and then sobered. "The thing is, I don't think you were wrong. He does like me. Worse than that, I… find myself enjoying his company too. Worse than _that_ even…" Her voice trailed off and she stopped to admire another druid's epaulets. "Worse than that, I don't want to solve it by just dragging him to bed- or cave, or soft, mossy glade somewhere in Stranglethorn." She turned to Samoj, eyes flashing with accusation. "Why'd his people have to crash land so close to the Night Elves? You know damn well Chief Bloodhoof would have given them any aid they needed!"

"Hey, it ain't ma fault dey fall on some leetle island! Politic-ly, I don' tink dey have anyting against Tauren. I tink it just because da Chief be allied wit' da Warchief an' da Warchief be an Orc. And he welcome da Blood Elves here too, so dat not look so good from da pahspective of Draenei."

Ironcore grunted in agreement. "The point is, I agreed to befriend him."

"Befriend him?"

"You know, the step before the mossy glade in Stranglethorn?"

"Ha. Right."

"I actually want to know him."

_You do?_ thought Samoj. _You don' even wan' ta know Hrama an' he been your 'pprentice fo' tree years_.

"I do. Right now. While he's still… He's so enthusiastic is hurts to look at him. He has no idea what's out there waiting for him." Her forehead furrowed and her brows came down to shade her eyes. "He was with a group of, oh, eight or nine people. I didn't count. Two years from now, I'll wager four, maybe five of them will still be alive."

"Kafa…"

"It's true, Samoj! Remember Fregar and Toia? Or Gesh? And Immi'en?"

"Kafa, dear one…"

Ironcore stared stonily into the distance. "He's going to see everyone he loves die."

"An' den he turn into you an' go live like hermit, 'cept when he do little tings like save people lives ta feel bettah 'bout bein' alone?"

It was a testament to the strength of their friendship that Samoj didn't find himself the target of a sudden and concentrated tropical storm.

"Yeah," said Ironcore through clenched teeth, "Something like that." Then she sighed and the tension left her. "Yeah." Samoj reached over and rubbed her back between her shoulder blades.

"So whatchoo gon' do?"

"I… got a letter from the Alchemist's Guild this morning," she said slowly. "They want to send an alchemist to Grom'gol. They say there are so many kinds of useful herbs growing there that young herbalists and alchemists venture over, gather them and then have no one nearby to train them further."

Samoj mulled this over. "You a herbalist an' alchemist."

"Yeah."

"So dey want _you_ to do dis?"

"I leave on the next ship to Stranglethorn Vale," Ironcore replied. She looked a little dazed.

"But-"

"The next ship is tomorrow afternoon," she said more firmly. "I'm not going to turn down an opportunity just so I can hang around Ratchet having tea with the enemy."

Samoj shrugged. "I was gon' say, but what about Hrama? He ain't trained full yet." He grinned smugly. "But if you mo' worried 'bout ja _boyfriend_'-"

This time Samoj did not escape without retribution as Ironcore grimaced, reached behind him and proceeded to clock him with one of his own totems.

Ironcore was used to moving around. She offered her apartment to Hrama for the duration of her tenure in Grom'gol, telling him she was only doing it so it wouldn't be dusty when she returned, and spent the rest of the day visiting various tailors, blacksmiths, trade supply merchants and food vendors to provision herself for the trip across the ocean.

The morning of the day the ship was set to sail, Samoj and Jashi appeared at her door, both grinning hugely.

"What?" Ironcore asked suspiciously.

Jashi held out a folded piece of paper. The druid took it cautiously and opened it.

"You're throwing me a going-away party? That's very kind of you," she said, touched.

"Ah know you no like parties usually, but this be special. You gon' be Grom'gol's specialist in da alchemical arts," said Samoj.

"Ja make us proud!" said Jashi, pumping her fist. "An' ju got to come to da party."

"I will do it."

The party was hastily scheduled to take place in the very inn where the Alliance party were still nursing their wounds and preparing to trek back to Auberdine and then Stormwind City. Word of the impending gathering reached Medarion through the chatty innkeeper and spread via Pelcyr, who was still amazed that they had ever run into Ironcore again. She had thought for certain that they would never meet again, and if so, definitely not so soon. Beln leaving the inn with her for a two-hour walk had been a curiosity to all, but the Draenei would only say that he wanted to ask her about her people and it was all genial. Pelcyr was a little envious- she would have liked to thank Ironcore herself, profusely, repeatedly, for saving her life. She had managed a smile when the two returned but Ironcore had been distracted by something. Now, Pelcyr realized it was the letter from the Alchemist's Guild. Perhaps she would be approachable at her going-away party…

Even from the stairs, Beln could see Ironcore wasn't a party person. She was gracious and smiling, but her eyes lingered too long on the doors and windows. But she was trying and on some level at least, it seemed the party made her happy. Beln straightened his tunic one more time- it seemed to have shrunk, or perhaps he'd grown since he had last felt the need to look more than practical.

As he approached, a male Troll with immensely long tusks, bright magenta hair and fierce facial tattoos slunk to the Tauren's side and hung an arm around around her neck in a familiar way. Beln paused. She didn't push him away and they appeared to be speaking. She smiled. The Troll's eyes widened, he said something and she grabbed one of his tusks and man-handled him sideways.

"Hello Beln," she said, still holding onto the Troll. She jerked her head at him. "This is my friend Samoj, An'killi's father. He's extremely crude, so I'll just paraphrase everything he says."

The Draenei chuckled. "Tell him hello!"

Ironcore turned to Samoj. "He says if you touch me inappropriately he'll gut you."

"Yeah? Rah! Ju lyin'. Tell heem he gon' have his hands full!"

Pelcyr peeked down the stairs and watched Beln banter with Ironcore and her scary Troll friend. Seeing the druid in the company of other Horde species didn't make her seem any less worthy of Pel's respect. In fact, it might have increased her respect for the creatures the druid did associate with, although the Troll was one frightening-looking guy.

"Pelcyr!" Beln called, chancing to notice her. She descended the stairs uncertainly and wove her way through the other patrons. Every step of the way the Troll watched her like a hawk.

"What is your thing with elves?" said Ironcore, shaking her head.

"It's da eyebrows, mon," said Samoj, taking a step towards the obviously-intimidated Pelcyr. "Think she scream if I touch 'em?"

Ironcore turned to the priestess. "I don't even want to say this but, my lecherous buddy here wants to touch your eyebrows."

Beln and Pelcyr looked at each other. "Uh…"

"Why?" asked Pel. Ironcore shook her head.

"I don't want to ask and if I did, you definitely wouldn't want to kno-"

The rest of the inn carried on as it had been before but at that moment both Ironcore and Samoj stood up straight, eyes wide, ears pricked, suddenly and totally alert.

"Samoj…" said the Druid, slowly tucking her tail between her hocks.

"Kafa…" said the Shaman. They moved in unison, Samoj pouncing onto the closest table with animal grace, hollering something in Orcish, Ironcore simply straightening up to her full height.

"_Everybody get out!"_ she bellowed in Common. "Get out of Ratchet! Go as far inland as you can! Run!" There was a moment of stunned silence and inaction, then the Druid stamped a hoof and roared, "_GET AWAY FROM THE COAST!_"

Either her voice or her words shocked the customers into action and there was a mad scramble for the front door. The curious stretched to look towards the ocean, flat and calm under the setting sun, and turned to each other puzzled. Was it some kind of ruse?

"Don't bother with your things!" Ironcore was still yelling. "Just run! Take the fastest mount you can find! Get away from the coast! RUN!" Beln and Pelcyr hadn't moved, too confused and startled. Ironcore grabbed them unceremoniously and hauled them out of the building.

"Go," she said, dark eyes ringed in white fear, "Run as far and as fast as you can."

"Wait, Ironcore, what's going on?" asked Beln. The druid paused and met his gaze.

"Something… _slipped_," was all she said and then she was running, pounding on doors with her fists, shouting the warning in Common and Orcish back-to-back. Pelcyr and Beln stared, horrified.

"What on Azeroth happened back there?" said Medarion, catching up with his sibling. Pelcyr recalled his inability to let her leave his sight for longer than a minute and frowned but was simultaneously relieved.

"She said something 'slipped'. What does that mean?"

All of Ratchet was awake and chattering with questions. They moved up the path and onto the spread of the prairies. Ilsa and Dyvaur joined the group, equally baffled, shrugging and squinting out at the smooth sea.

Ironcore and Samoj circled back towards the inn from their respective directions. The Shaman was practically running on all fours, fear making him edgy and feral. His brilliant hair bristled with static electricity.

"I think that's everyone! Let's go!" panted the Druid. She held her head low, horns apparent.

"They're not far enough away," hissed Samoj and waved his hands at the puzzled crowd. "RUN! RUN!"

"Oh, who is _that_?!" groaned the Druid, gesturing to the dock. At the end stood a goblin, who had either not noticed the ruckus or decided not to care. Ironcore turned away from Samoj and trotted down the hill towards the dock.

"Kafa- dammnit. RUN YOU IDIOTS!!" he howled at the crowd and charged them to get his point across. They wavered, still unconvinced despite the pairs' obvious terror. They couldn't see anything-

Tialla sped past Medarion and Pelcyr in a dead sprint.

"What-?" yelled Medarion and took off after her. "Tialla!" She cast a look over her shoulder, seeing the siblings loping behind her.

"Something broke," she said, "something in the earth broke far out in the ocean."

"Why should that matter here?" said Pelcyr and chanced to look back.

What she saw- what the citizens of Ratchet now spied as well- was a dark band on the horizon that hadn't been there before. She stopped running, spellbound and terrified both, and watched as the great wave raged towards them. It lifted the ocean, began to eclipse the low afternoon sun from the bottom up and careened straight for the east coast of Kalimdor at a blistering pace.

Now they ran. Every man, woman, child and beast took to their heels and pelted for the Barrens' plains. For the people of Ratchet, given a head start by Ironcore and Samoj, there was hope. They put their heads down and they sped away from their homes and businesses. Pelcyr saw the Flight Master soar overhead the crowd on one of his wind-riding wyverns, but the act of warning Ratchet had cost the Druid and the Shaman precious time.

On the burgeoning tidal wave rode the ship to Booty Bay, the _Maiden's Fancy_, haplessly rolled and bounced, tossed along and unable to topple from the crest of the water wall. As the base of the wave slammed into the coastal plane and roared along it, the top began to out-strip the bottom and the ship began to fall. Those fleeing the destruction would remember the sight of the ship- a delicate caricature of a vessel- sling-shotted by the power of the wave and free-falling with deadly force towards their escape route.

The momentum of the wave burst over the docks, flinging them apart in splinters thin as hair, disintegrating buildings, pulverizing the cliffs and still driving forward with terrifying speed into the Barrens. Some of them wouldn't be able to out-run it; chaos was imminent.

Beln chanced to glance back at that moment, fear freezing him as he remembered Ironcore heading for the lone goblin on the dock, and stumbled.

The _Maiden's Fancy_ came down. The sailing ship was already little more than a bundle of wood and metal held together with a tangle of rope and canvas, and when it struck the ground the dying ship exploded in every direction. A three metre length of mast missed Beln by less than a foot. Chunks of hull, pieces of metal, rivets, pulleys, door handles, pegs, chair legs, pots, portholes- everything that had been the _Maiden's Fancy_ rained down with ruthless force, hit the ground and bounced back up. It was a maelstrom of destruction.

And then the wave came. Pelcyr had the sense to grab Medarion and shriek a power word to shield them, clapped her hands over her ears, tumbling safe within her bubble as the power and turmoil of the displaced sea brought with it the remains of Ratchet and hurled it out onto the prairie. Beln's eyes met Tialla's for a fraction of a second before the roaring oblivion sent them careening in opposite directions.

Ironcore never reached the goblin straggler. She shifted form the instant the water hit, knowing she had a better chance of survival with thick, tough blubber. Battered and rolled about by the disorganized currents, thrown and dragged, she fought to straighten herself out and did her best to dodge the debris cluttering up the churning water.

Beln fought and struggled, but he couldn't tell which way the surface was. He felt his lungs burning for air and frantically stroked towards the brightest point he could see. Something sliced into his upper arm and he gasped automatically, sucking in a noseful of water. He tried to cough, sputtered underwater and then struck him and there was black, blinding pain throbbing through his skull. His last thought was a garbled wish that he'd worn his armour.


	7. Starlight

**A/N: In which we meet the first canon NPC who will take part in the story. :D **

CHAPTER 7 – Starlight

Beln sat up, dizzy. Everything looked blurry and sounded muffled. A warm, green light sprang up to his right and he turned, dazedly, towards it in curiosity.

"Hold on," said a familiar voice, "you got cracked on the head."

"I-ron-corrrre…?" he slurred and then the world shifted and he fell sideways. "Whurrr… am… we…?"

"Damned if I know. Not drowning. Come here."

He dragged himself in the direction of her voice. His head hurt. His throat hurt. His sinuses and nasal passages were burning from the salt water he'd inhaled. A solid hand gripped his waist and held him steady. The green glow slowly abated. His vision adjusted itself and the sad state of his affairs came into focus.

"Oh no…"

All he could see in any direction was ocean. Bits of wood, shreds of fabric, unidentifiable bits and pieces- some of them bleeding- dotted the waterscape. He and Ironcore were sitting on a slab of wood that might have been part of the ship, might have been part of the Ratchet dock or might have been someone's bedroom wall. He couldn't tell. It was floating and barely large enough for the two of them. At first, he thought the wave had drowned the Barrens completely, then he realized the sun was all wrong.

"Where are we?" he whispered again, turning to the druid. She was kneeling beside him, a thick trickle of blood moving sluggishly down the side of her neck from a deep gash behind her left ear. One hand was still on his waist, but the other lay immobile in her lap, the elbow twisted awkwardly inward.

"East," she said, "drifting southward. Can you swim?"

"Yes- Ironcore, you're injured."

She looked down at her dislocated shoulder as though discovering it for the first time and nodded. "Yes. But you had a head injury." Beln couldn't argue with her triage decision but as she made no move to heal herself, he grew worried.

"Here. This I can fix," he said and reached down to touch her slack arm. Her eyes widened and he saw her jaw flex, but she let him take her hand. By her reaction, Beln assumed she had experienced this before and was steeling herself for a sharp yank. He smiled. "Surprise," he said and closed his eyes, envisioning the flowing, glimmering beauty that was the Seat of the Naaru within the broken halls of the Exodar.

Ironcore had expected him to brace himself and pull. She had dislocated her other shoulder once before and Jashi spent almost a week apologizing after the howl of pain re-locating it had caused. But Beln closed his eyes and murmured something. A little sigil, something alien to her, formed in the air, glowing above his brow. Then he opened his eyes and soothing power gripped the druid's shoulder. There was no agony. Sinews and muscles slithered back, pulling the bone painlessly into place. It was as if her body acted on its own to repair itself. She stared in amazement.

"I didn't know you could heal," she said, watching the glowing symbol fade into memory.

"Not very often. It takes a lot of concentration, but it is something we can all do once in a while." Ironcore massaged her shoulder with her other hand approvingly.

"I thank you, very much, for that."

"You're very welcome. Now… what are we going to do?" Beln turned his face up to her, looking for reassurance. Ironcore squinted into the setting sun.

"I'm exhausted," she said. "I don't have the strength to shape-shift or I would jump in and try to pull us to shore."

"I can swim," offered Beln eagerly, "and I feel… well, I feel better than you look."

Ironcore snorted. Blood bubbled from her left nostril. "Dammnit," she said and wiped her nose with the shreds of her sleeve. Now that Beln looked more closely, he saw that the entire left side of her face was matted with blood. Her dark fur hid it mostly, but it was clear she had been slammed in the head by something.

"Are you going to be okay?" he asked earnestly. She smiled. There was blood on her teeth.

"I'll be fine. I just need a bit of rest. Trust me, Beln. I've been through worse."

"If you say so," he said. "Give me your belt." She didn't question his purpose, just reached down and unbuckled the heavy leather strap around her waist. Beln undid his own and then threaded the buckle of his through the end of hers, pulling it taut once to test the strength. He cast about the sad little raft for a place to anchor it, spied a crooked board and looped Ironcore's buckle over it. Then he slid off the raft into the water holding the other end.

"I'll swim until I'm tired," he said, "Then it's your turn." He waited for her to nod acceptance and then put the leather between his teeth and struck off towards the setting sun.

Ironcore fell asleep within minutes, curled up on the coarse wooden boat. Beln paused swimming to check on her when he realized she was no longer awake, but she was breathing easily and her pulse thumped strongly in her throat. She had saved Pelcyr's life and now his. He would swim as long as she slept!

Actually, Beln swam for about half an hour before something else made him stop. There was faint splashing and a voice, hoarsely croaking, "Hello! HELLO!" in Common. He got up on the raft, squinting into the twilight, seeking the owner of the voice. He couldn't see details, but he did notice a disturbance in the ocean some ways away. Again he entered the water and pulled the raft closer.

"Hello?" said the voice and Beln stopped, hanging onto the side of the raft, peering into the falling night. It was small, whatever it was. Perhaps a gnome? He paddled closer. Maybe a goblin.

To his surprise, it was not a gnome, or a goblin, nor any other sentient species indigenous to Azeroth. It was the blue parrot from the _Maiden's Fancy_, bedraggled and terrified, clinging to a half-submerged crate. When it saw him, the bird cocked its head and whined like a badly oiled engineering project.

"Uh," said Beln, "Were you talking?"

"Hello! Hello!" yelped the parrot and rose up, flapping its wings frantically. It didn't let go of the crate although it seemed to want to fly. Beln stretched out one hand.

"Come," he said, imitating Ilsa's command that had brought Rose to her side. The parrot twisted its head the other direction and made a staccato bubbling sound vaguely reminiscent of a raspberry. "Come!" he said more sternly. The parrot laughed. "Dammnit, I'm not going to leave you here, but you better get up-" The bird let go of the crate and hopped onto his out-stretched hand. It looked him in the eye and made a gentle cooing sound, then ran up his arm, flapped once and stood on his head. "Uh…" Beln trod water and thought about it. The bird was probably safe there. If it wanted to ride on his head, so be it. They'd all be happier when they got to dry land.

Roughly three hours later, Ironcore woke up. She felt infinitely better, though she still had a bit of a headache. Night had settled in while she slept. For a moment, she stayed on her side, curled up awkwardly, and craned her head sideways to look up at the sky. There was no moon tonight, only stars in a fine, brilliant wash across the black, an endless sprawl save for the ocean where she lay. She could have been alone in the universe then, with nothing but the gaping sky and she might have been happy with that. There was no war here, no bloodshed or loss or terror or rage.

There was a rhythmic splashing from somewhere ahead of her. She sat up slowly, attempting not to rock the little boat and murmured a minor healing spell, focusing on where _something_ had cracked her on the skull. The glow of her spell illuminated Beln, the source of the splashing, with his long white hair all undone and trailing behind him in the water, swimming with strong, even strokes. She watched him for a long moment. No, she was not alone.

She had spied the unconscious Draenei as she floundered in the tidal wave, had fought her way through stubbourn currents to reach him and taken his wrist in her mouth, hauling him to the surface. She'd prodded and pulled until his head was above the turbulence. There was probably water in his lungs, but there was nothing she could do as she struggled to keep them both from being sucked into the undertow when the wave began to retreat. It took all her strength just to keep them from drowning and by the time the sea had settled and there was no danger, they were so far from land that Ironcore couldn't see anything but ocean.

But he was hardy- she'd changed form, wrestled him aboard this piece of flotsam, thumped his chest with one hand, whispered spells and pulled energy from the earth to stop her hands from shaking as she mended his graver injuries. He breathed, and he lived. Ironcore let out a shuddering sigh. He was alive.

She peered closer. He was alive and he seemed to have acquired a hat.

"What is that?" she said. Beln stopped and paddled in place, grinning.

"The bird from the ship!"

"From the ship? What ship- the _Maiden's Fancy_?! By the Earthmother! That's one lucky bird!"

"I thought so too."

"Come, climb up here and get out of the water. It's my turn." Beln clambered back up onto the raft, the parrot clinging stubbournly to his horns. It bobbed its head at Ironcore and chuckled happily to itself, but stayed on Beln's head. Judging from her expression, the sight was probably one of the best she'd seen in many days. "I think she likes you."

"It's a she?"

Ironcore shrugged. "I think I heard one of the crew mention it once. Don't take my word for it. I think the females look just like the males. Her name's Treasure."

"Whatcha doin'?" said Treasure the parrot. Beln held his hand up to the bird tentatively. She had a beak that looked like it belonged on something much larger and more savage.

"Come on," he said. Eventually, he felt the bird's feet grab onto his fingers and he lowered the bird to the deck of their miserable raft. Ironcore slid off the side into the water and then dove. A moment later, something large, aquatic and alarmingly nasty surfaced where she had gone under. Beln's first instinct was to dive in after her and beat the tar out of this creature, but he paused. The parrot seemed perfectly at ease with the beady-eyed, sabred-toothed monstrosity. He looked from the bird to the beast and understanding dawned on him.

"Ironcore?" he said. The beast nodded. "I forgot you Druids could do that. Perhaps a little warning next time? I almost hit you." The sea-beast chuffed into the water but nodded again. Beln held out the belt to her and she took it from him with her tusked mouth.

Beln sat cross-legged, the parrot now perched on his thigh, nibbling at the seam in his trousers without a care in the world. The sea was black in every direction. The sky was black, stars brighter than Beln had ever seen, or perhaps he had just never paid attention like this before. He was not tired. He would not sleep. It was otherworldly here, all alone in the night, so far out on the ocean that he and Ironcore and the bird might have been the last creatures alive, and it was bewitching.

He watched the silver gleam of water stream behind Ironcore as she swam, faster than he could and more easily. She was easy to admire. It wasn't just the strength of the Tauren or the versatility of the Druid, it was the willingness to _do_, the honesty and straight-forward certainty of right and wrong. Beln didn't know what he would have done in her place, had he been the powerful one in the mountains. Would he turn aside from a personal quest to save the life of a young Horde member? He would now, he thought.

When Ironcore's jaws began to ache from clamping them on the belt, she slowed and brought the raft to a halt. There was a tinge of pink to the sky behind them, just enough to illuminate the outline of something on the western horizon. Land. They'd found Kalimdor!

"Beln!" Beln woke with a start, not aware he'd fallen asleep. Ironcore, once again Tauren, leaned her elbows on the raft. "Look." He followed her pointing fingertip with his eyes.

"Land ho!" he crowed. "I can take us the rest of the way." Ironcore didn't argue. She pulled herself onto the little boat, dripping wet. Beln paused to watch, perturbed by something. "When you change shape," he said, "how do you… keep your clothes on?" He noticed that the torn sleeve she'd wiped her bloody nose with was still torn.

"Ah," said the Druid, knowingly, "it takes practice. When we shapeshift, everything we are- all the flesh, all the bone, the fabric of clothes and metal of armour- goes into becoming something else. If I change form while wearing full armour and carrying a weapon, my skin is thicker, my claws are sharper. Getting into form isn't the hard part, it's turning back. That takes a lot of practice. Most druids can reform them_selves_ just fine- after all we live in this body all our lives- but the inexperienced ones sometimes have trouble reforming their clothes or armour or weapons properly, especially if the clothes are new and you're not used to them."

Beln had the distinct impression Ironcore had encountered that exact problem from the way she was pursing her lips and looking awkwardly into the distance.

"What happens when they can't reform their clothes or weapons correctly?"

"You end up naked, holding a lump of steel."

Beln snorted with laughter. "Well you would be motivated to learn fast!"

"Ye-es, especially when your teacher demands a demonstration," she quirked a smile. "It's also why we only learn to become certain creatures. It takes practice and skill. Even experienced druids make mistakes."

"Is that why I sometimes see bears with elf ears?"

"Sort of. Not really. The Night Elves keep their ears to declare their race when they shapeshift. It's so their allies can recognize them. The real beasts can tell right away what they see isn't really a bear or a cat. We still smell like we normally do, to them."

"Ah," said Beln, "that's why Treasure wasn't petrified of you when you popped out of the water earlier."

Ironcore nodded. "I look different, but I still smell like Ironcore."

"So when you shapeshift into a bear or a panther, do you still have Tauren ears?"

"Ha, no. We have horns."

"Horns? I think I saw a lion with horns in the Barrens!"

"Then you saw a Druid."

Beln found himself with an idea. "I'd lik to see you turn into a lioness."

Ironcore grunted. "So would I! No, all Tauren druids turn into lions. Male lions. Even if you're a female Tauren."

Beln wasn't sure what to say. "Uh…"

Ironcore chuckled. "I have no idea why. I guess if I had studied how to become a lioness back then, I would be able to become a lioness. But they train us to become lions, perhaps because it's easier to convert our bodyweight to that of a male lion."

"I think I'd still like to see it."

Ironcore shaded her eyes with one hand. "Well, you probably will. Be careful as you approach the shore. It looks like we're landing on the edge of the Tanaris Desert." Beln turned and looked as well. The sun glowed on the pale shore. Tall orange cliffs undulated into nothingness behind the beach.

"Tanaris Desert," he said to himself and swallowed. He'd heard stories. All of them told him he shouldn't be anywhere near Tanaris, inexperienced as he was. He looked back at Ironcore, engrossed in petting the parrot's head. It wasn't just her sleeve that had ripped during the turmoil. Her trousers ended halfway up her thighs in rags, her tabard had been reduced to ribbons and the shirt beneath it was hanging from one shoulder. He could see more sleek, stark black fur than he could clothing.

Truthfully, he wasn't much better off, although he had somehow managed to keep his tunic mostly undamaged. Well, trekking across Tanaris would probably fix that. With another glance at the solid wall of muscle previously hidden by Ironcore's shirt, Beln set out for the shore feeling fairly safe.

The first snapjaw took Beln by surprise, coming up from below and making an attempt to crush his foot and drag him under. Had he been anything but a Draenei (or a Tauren, he reflected briefly), the snapjaw would have succeeded. As it was, it pulled him under but got a swift kick in the beak by Beln's other hoof as it tried unsuccessfully to shatter the one in its mouth. Two seconds later, the snapjaw was broad-sided by a familiar saber-toothed water beast. There was a frantic struggle and then the snapjaw was drifting slowly towards the bottom, trailing a thin line of blood from its skull. Beln surfaced, grimacing and looking around for more of the ill-tempered turtles.

They were everywhere.

"Stay on the raft," said Ironcore, Tauren again. "I'll go ashore and clear a path." The grouchy reptiles didn't seem interested in attacking the druid as she swam to the beach. Maybe he had just irritated the one that had come after him. Confidence bolstered, Beln slipped off the raft and began to follow. Every beady eye capable of tracking movement was now fixed on him and several of the beasts started toward him with intent. Beln climbed hastily back on the boat.

Green light flared between Ironcore's hands and then she whipped a handful of fire at the snapjaw closest to Beln. It immediately changed direction, mouth agape, eyes narrowed. She flicked swirls of flame at another, then another, and another. Now their attention was focused on Ironcore and Beln wisely paddled for the shore. Ironcore had drawn the ire of seven turtles in total and as Beln came up on the beach, one hand on his head stabilizing the parrot who was more than a little apprehensive, she shouted something that sounded a lot like a curse. One of the snapjaws had nipped her ankle.

Her shape seemed to ripple and a moment later Beln got his wish. With a throaty roar, Ironcore became a lion, all hard muscle, sand-coloured fur, rich russet mane, bared teeth and claws. She spun and slashed, huge paws slapping aside the snapping beaks. She concentrated on one, harried it, dodged the others until she had an opening and then pounced, pushing the beast sideways, then over and lunged in, teeth first, kicking it with her hind legs as she grappled. The fight was fast and brutal and very one-sided.

Beln was a little shaken by her ferocity. As she came out of the feral form, standing upright, adjusting the tattered remnants of her tabard, he quickly pushed his shock away. The Night Elf druid Tialla, subject of Medarion's thoughts, would be no different in her panther form, he knew. Druids were in tune with nature and nature could be as terrible as it could be lovely. Last night's tsunami had etched that into Beln's mind forever. Druids understood that power and they used a fraction of it.

"We're near the southernmost tip of Tanaris," said Ironcore, glancing into the distance. "There's a pirate camp around here somewhere, if I remember correctly."

Beln groaned. "We'll be sure to avoid that."

"Quite the opposite," replied the druid, smiling in what could only be called a predatory fashion, "we need weapons, armour, maybe some fresh clothes and definitely fresh water."

Beln laughed and found his heart pounding at the prospect of embarking on a legitimate adventure with the Druid. "Sounds like poetic justice to me. Let's go raid some pirates!"

Pelcyr was too tired to stand. She sat with her back propped against a tree, her hands shaking, her vision blurring, but the goblin beneath her trembling fingers wasn't getting any more healthy without her help. There was nothing here but her and the wounded man and she wouldn't stop until he wasn't bleeding. Finally, he stirred and Pelcyr collapsed sideways.

"Thank you, my lady," he said hoarsely, "Thank you. I- I will fetch someone to help you. Thank you!" He staggered to his feet and headed out of her fading field of view.

"You're welcome…" she murmured and felt her eyelids closing. She needed to sleep so badly… but there were so many hurt. She had been going on potions and adrenaline since nightfall and the sun was just pinking the eastern horizon now. Weakly, she tried to summon enough strength to push herself into a sitting position again. "Come on girl," she whispered, "Come on. You can do it... let's sit up."

Someone shoved a bowl under her nose. Pelcyr took a moment to focus her eyes and looked from the bowl- not a potion, but some kind of stew- to the one offering it. It was the fearsome male troll from the inn, Ironcore's friend who had liked her eyebrows. She blinked and sat up, a little afraid but also very hungry. Her stomach tightened at the smell, reminding her that for all her healing and potion-drinking, she'd done no eating and no sleeping and it was now well over fourteen hours since she'd had any food.

"Th-thank you," she said and reached out for the stew. The troll made sure she was holding it before he let go, then nodded to her and stood up, still watching. Between mouthfuls, Pelcyr examined him. He didn't look like he was in any better shape than she was. She remembered seeing him flounder out of the wave, parting the water with some kind of totem, shoving a group of wet, injured people ahead of him. He was a Shaman. Likely he had been up all night as well, healing major wounds while she took care of the minor ones. She hadn't looked up since the first survivor had held out a snapped wrist to her and asked for aid.

He nodded to her again, then moved off, weary but purposeful.

"I'm glad to see you eating," said Ilsa. She plopped onto the ground beside Pelcyr. Her left arm was in a sling and there was a bruise purpling her jaw. Dark circles showed under her eyes.

"Me too," was all Pelcyr could manage as she drank the soup right from the bowl, something she would normally never do. She couldn't remember the last time she hadn't used a spoon.

"Seen your brother 'round?" said the Huntress. Pelcyr nodded.

"He and Tialla went south, searching for more survivors. Should come back in a few hours."

"Hope he brings some," said Ilsa. She wore a hollow, dazed expression on her freckled face. Pelcyr understood exactly what had put it there. For every person she or one of the other healers managed to save, they lost one. For every living soul the searchers found, they found five, six, eight dead. Dyvaur, Ilsa's dwarven travelling companion, had been among those.

The priestess rolled her head back and forth on the tree trunk. She paused and met Ilsa's gaze.

"Beln?" said the Huntress. Pelcyr shook her head.

"Missing."

"Ironcore?"

Pelcyr sighed.

"Missing too."


	8. There For You

**A/N: Next week's chapter will be a day early, since I will be heading off into the wild next Monday to study rock types and land forms, get dirt under my nails and avoid grizzly bears. The following week will probably be a couple days late. :) Onwards!**

CHAPTER 8 – There For You

"No. The priestess is sleeping," growled Ilsa, narrowing her eyes at the goblin. Yes, he was injured but Ilsa had only managed to convince Pelcyr to get some rest two hours ago and she was not going to wake the Night Elf for anything short of another imminent natural disaster.

"But my leg-" insisted the goblin, gesturing to her obviously broken ankle. Ilsa sighed.

"Look, if you want, I'll help you out. My first aid is pretty decent." She didn't bother mentioning that her first aid experience was all animal-based. The goblin brightened.

"Just get me hobbling, that's all I ask," she said.

Medarion and Tialla arrived shortly after the goblin woman left, satisfied with Ilsa's handiwork.

"Where's Pelcyr?" asked Medarion immediatly. Ilsa gestured toward the lean-to she had erected from a bent sapling, rope and a torn sail.

"Sleeping. _Please_ don't wake her. She was up all night."

"Is she all right?"

"Miraculously unharmed," replied Ilsa and found herself smiling. Someday Medarion was going to be a daunting incarnation of mystical power but Ilsa suspected that on that day, if she told him Pelcyr stubbed her toe, he would drop scrolls and tomes to comfort his sister.

"Thank Elune," he sighed, then nodded to Ilsa. "Thank you for keeping her company, and watching out for her."

"Well, you were off helping out with the search and rescue effort, and I'm pretty useless at the moment." She gestured to her broken wrist and arm, splinted and supported by the sling around her neck. "I don't have a pet anymore and now I can't even shoot a bow." The white-haired Druid at his side smiled and put a slender hand on Ilsa's shoulder.

"I saw what you did for the goblin. You're not useless."

Ilsa grunted. "Feels like it. Hey, you two hungry? Ironcore's Troll buddy gave us some food." The two Night Elves looked at each other warily. "Oh come on. Don't you think there's bigger problems right now than who's on whose side? I ate some and I'm still alive."

"Is it… any good?" asked Medarion, suspicious.

"It's hastily made survival camp food! Of course it's wretched! Just eat it. You look like hell." Chastised, the pair sat down cautiously, muttering to each other about a lack of utensils when the huntress presented them with bowls of stew. Tialla scrounged a heel of bread from her pack and broke it apart for the three of them to share. Ilsa enthusiastically shoveled stew into her mouth using the bread and had to hide a smile behind the bowl when she saw the elves trying not to gawk at her outrageous manners.

Just as she was about to say something regarding the Night Elves legendary delicacy, a long, cold shadow slipped over the trio. Despite the rising sun, Ilsa felt herself break out in goosebumps. She looked up.

"Excuse me," said the intruder, "you are a hunter, yes?"

Ilsa swallowed. The man- a fact she could only determine judging from his voice- was dripping wet and had obviously been dead for quite a while. His cheekbones protruded through blueish skin and his glowing eyes were sunk deeply into dark sockets. He was dressed in armour so black it seemed to absorb light and she quickly decided the blurry miasma rising from his shoulders was just steam evaporating off his armour.

"Um," she said, "yes, I am."

"Please," he said, and turned, extending his arm. Ilsa followed his gesture. A very unhappy, long-dead horse stood several feet behind him, as far away from its owner as the reins would allow, head hanging low, one back leg cocked. Ilsa was stunned for a moment, unsure what exactly he wanted. Anything she knew about mending animals would be useless, wouldn't it?

"Her leg," he said and the huntress returned her gaze to the man. He had a nice voice, rich and deep and surprisingly gentle. Right now there was a note of pleading to it that she found rather endearing. "She put her foot in a rabbit hole," he said.

"Poor thing," replied Ilsa automatically and approached the undead steed. It had no ears to lay back or lips to curl away from its teeth, but Ilsa read misery and ill-temper in the way it crooked its head away and leaned back on its haunches. It held the off-side hoof away from the ground and there was an obvious swelling around the joint. "Hey," she whispered and held out her fist, "hey there… Aw, sweetie… look at your poor leg. Bet that hurts, doesn't it?" She caught the rider's eye and quirked her eyebrow. "Does it actually feel pain?" The man nodded slightly.

"Her name is Blueberry."

Ilsa almost bit through her lip trying not to laugh. "Hey Blueberry… hey girl. Good girl. Hi there, sweetie. I'm going to look at your leg." Most of the dead mare was covered in armoured barding but Ilsa found a spot on her neck where there was no metal and some intact flesh and fur. She gently laid her hand on the cold animal and scratched with her fingertips. "Yeah, that's nice, eh? Good girl," she said and continued to scratch and croon, running her hands over the horse until she stood beside her flank.

Medarion and Tialla looked at each other, bemused.

"Why doesn't she have a pet?" Tialla whispered.

"She had a wolf. It died in Wailing Caverns," Medarion murmured in reply.

"Oh," said the Druid sadly. "Poor human." Medarion nodded, watching as Ilsa cajoled the undead horse into letting her manipulate its injured leg with her good hand. Even the beast's owner seemed impressed.

"You know," said Tialla, leaning toward him, eyes still on the huntress and the horse, "once when I was in panther form, a young hunter thought I was an actual panther and tried to tame me."

Medarion laughed. "Oh surely you're kidding."

"No, I swear to Cenarius. I was stalking a stag and this young fellow- a human- popped out of the undergrowth and starts creeping toward me holding a piece of coyote meat, I think. I was so startled, I just stood there and he thought he was succeeding."

"Until you changed form."

"Oh yes. I think he was more surprised then."

The horse whinnied and sidled in a circle on three legs. Ilsa stood up and smiled at the imposing dark rider.

"It's not broken, thank goodness. Looks like she just sprained it- if that's possible. If you don't ride her and keep her quiet for a couple weeks, it should heal. I can give you some salve to rub onto it to help with the inflammation." Then she turned to the Night Elves, who were watching the show with great interest. "Tialla, could you heal her, do you think?"

The Druid shook her head. "I'm a terrible healer," she said. "My specialty is shapechanging."

"I wouldn't want to impose," said the horse's owner.

"Too bad Ironcore isn't… you know," said Ilsa with a sigh. "You guys didn't see any sign of her?" The pair shook their heads.

"Who is this?" said the rider, curiously.

"A friend of ours," said Ilsa. "Tauren Druid. Huge lady, black fur. Usually has a mace. I think… no one's seen her."

"A Tauren?" he said and stepped closer, "Friends with the Alliance?" His voice had acquired an edge of excitement.

"Not really friends," said Medarion, "she was an acquaintance. She helped us out once."

"Is she acquainted with a strapping young white-haired Draenei too?"

"Beln!" said Ilsa, "You know him? Or her?"

"Not at all, but I definitely saw them while I was underwater. She was pulling him up towards the surface. I thought she was trying to hurt him at first since she was in that awful sea-creature form that Druids have- no offense, lovely lady- and she had his arm in her mouth. I almost- well." Ilsa was clasping her hands in front of her, trying not to hope. The man sat down on the log Medarion and Tialla were sharing and continued his story with animated hand gestures. "Then I realized she was trying to get him above the water. It was no small feat. The currents were terrible- Blueberry and I just stood our ground on the bottom and tried not to get too battered up. But she got him up there and changed form, heaved him across her shoulders and swam to some wreckage. I couldn't believe it but there it was."

"They're alive!" Ilsa squealed and bounced once on the balls of her feet with joy. "Thank you, sir, thank you! Um, what is your name? You've brought us great news."

"I am Vedenrith. And I have the pleasure of addressing…?"

"Ilsa Birdcatcher."

"Medarion Woodsgrace."

"Tialla Gladeshadow."

"Thank you, Vedenrith," said Medarion gallantly, "Between you and Ironcore, I'm starting to wonder why we're even fighting the Horde."

"Horde?" said Vedenrith, apparently confused, "I'm with the Alliance. I'm human."

"Oh," said Medarion, appalled by his mistake.

Vedenrith chuckled. "No harm done."

-------------------------------------------------

"Can you use a polearm?" asked Ironcore, surveying the pile of weapons she had collected from hapless pirates. Beln shook his head.

"I wanted to learn, but I've never been instructed. Ah! That's a great-looking sword though!" He picked up a long one-handed blade and moved it around appreciatively. "And a shield too." He felt better as he re-armed himself. It would have been certain death for him to attack the pirates alongside Ironcore, but he still felt useless and frustrated while she plunged ahead and put a dent in Tanaris' illegal trade problem. He stayed back among the rocks, watching the Tauren wreak havoc and occasionally shushing the blue parrot, who insisted on commentating in her chuckling language. Seeing Ironcore in battle was as chilling as it was exciting. Beln could see the pirates were inexperienced fighters and poorly coordinated, and because of it, he was sure he wasn't seeing the Druid fight at the height of her abilities, but it was still terrifying. He had been improving his skills steadily since leaving Azuremist Isle and had even become proud of his personal achievements. Ironcore's skill dwarfed his and humbled him. He was glad she was on his side.

There were few clothes that fit either of them since the pirates were mostly human or Trolls. _Interesting_, thought Beln. _The righteous elements of Azeroth don't ally as easily like this, human and Troll and dwarf and goblin and gnoll. I wonder what that makes Ironcore and I?_

"Well if you can't use it," she said and grasped the handle in both hands, putting her foot on the shaft where it met the blade. There was a crack and then Ironcore stood up, holding what would have been a short sword to most people but looked more like a dagger in her hand. "I can."

"There's a water barrel over here too," said Beln, growing more enthusiastic about the looting as he acquired necessities.

"Excellent! It should only take us three of four days to cross the desert to Gadgetzan from here," she said, straightening thick leather bracers she'd filched from an unlucky Troll pirate. "Are you ready?"

"Absolutely! Let's go!"

Six hours of relentless sun later, Beln was much less spirited. He was rationing the water to an absolute minimum and it never felt like enough moisture. Worse, the sun reflected off the pale sand and he had a headache either from squinting or heatstroke. He said nothing to Ironcore, but kept pace with her. She had taken only a few articles of armour, which had puzzled him, and the voluminous robe of a rotten-toothed human man nearly the size of Beln. The parrot, not impressed by the constant sun, was now tucked inside Ironcore's hood, grumbling to itself. Now he understood. The robe covered most of Ironcore's black fur from the glaring sun, with the armour protecting only strategic body parts. As it was, the warrior was glad he wasn't in full mail.

Something hissed behind him and Beln shouted, leaping aside as the basilisk charged. How something so big managed to creep up on them, he would never know. But as he dodged, he swung his sword down, chopping defiantly into the beast's thick hide. It whirled toward him and he darted sideways again, swinging his shield into the creature's pathway to distract it while he yanked his sword free. He back-pedalled, hurried but graceful, leading the monster on.

It never saw the source of the final strike, a blast of energy that collapsed it flat into the sand. Beln approached, chest heaving.

"Are those good to eat?"

"They're okay," said Ironcore, "but the other options out here are even less tasty." She set to work on the carcass with her sword/dagger. Beln kept an attentive look out for more potential ambushers. Ironcore looked up at him, expression unreadable. Beln wasn't sure whether she was just one of those people who didn't reveal much emotion or if it was her foreign facial structure that made it difficult for him to tell what was on her mind.

"You did really well just now," she said, voice full of warmth. Beln stood up straighter and preened a bit.

"Thank you. I had great back-up."

Now she was smiling. "But you didn't run and moreover, you struck. A fine warrior in the making." She looked back to her task and missed Beln blushing with pride.

"I have a request," he said suddenly, scanning their dessicated surroundings.

"What's that?"

"Teach me some Orcish."

She mulled this over. "Why?"

"Why? Well, you can speak Common. You can communicate with any race in the Alliance in a language they understand. I want to be able to communicate with any race in the Horde."

"Fair enough. We'll start with this," she said and pointed to her knife. "Repeat after me."

Hours passed. The sun continued unabated. Ironcore trudged across the sand, mentally checking their progress against her memory of the landscape. The Tanaris Desert was not one of her favourite places that she had visited but it had one thing going for it: if you walked north long enough, eventually you would run into Gadgetzan. Even when you were too far off to see the goblin city, you could hear it and smell it. And once they reached Gadgetzan, it was a simple matter to hire a Windrider and get them back into civilization again.

Providing there was civilization to return to. The more Ironcore thought about it- the quiet _thud_ in her mind as the conflicting faults released their tension by sliding one beneath the other was still giving her chills- the more she realized the chaos they would find. It wasn't just Ratchet on the eastern coast of Kalimdor; Sen'Jin Village was there, Orgrimmar was there, Theramore Island was there. Horde and Alliance both would be devastated by this disaster.

It was a sobering notion, even to someone who understood and respected the power of the earth. No matter how strong Ironcore became, no matter what forces of nature she commanded or how much power she could draw from the living world, she was insubstantial compared to the planet itself. Perhaps Arthas and the killing Scourge could challenge it but only the things that walked or grew upon it. Could the Lich King shift faults? Ironcore didn't think so.

The parrot rustled beside her ear. It had been gnawing on her right horn for a good hour. How the thing had survived the ship wreck she would never figure out. To its credit, it was well-behaved for a bird, keeping ear-nibbling and screaming to a minimum. It was more bright-eyed and alert than either she or Beln at this point.

Soon the sun was setting and the two travelers stopped in the lee of a dune to make camp. Camp consisted of a small fire to thoroughly blacken the basilisk meat and two shallow depressions that served as beds. Beln argued he should have the first watch since Ironcore had done most of the fighting that day and was surely tired. She gave in without much resistance.

"We should try to cover some ground tonight and find shelter for tomorrow," she said. "It's too damn hot to be travelling the whole way to Gadgetzan during the day."

Beln nodded. "This is much more pleasant."

Years of adventure and exploration had endowed Ironcore with the ability to sleep on just about any surface, under just about any circumstances. She scooped handfuls of sand into a pile at just the right height for a gritty pillow and curled up to Beln muttering the Orcish words she had taught him under his breath.

Beln practiced his words, trying to voice the harsh language in a way where he didn't spit around every second syllable, and watched Ironcore sleep.

----------------------------------------------

Pelcyr woke up as the sun was setting. It was disorienting, but she pulled her cloak around her shoulders and left the lean-to, looking around for Ilsa. She found Tialla sitting on the log Ilsa had rolled in front of the make-shift tent as a bench. Medarion was nowhere to be seen.

"Good evening," said the Druid.

"Good evening," replied Pelcyr and sat down, watching the sun sink behind the far hills. She yawned daintily, covering her mouth with one hand.

"I can't believe I slept all day."

"Ilsa said you were up all night, healing the injured. You have a right to sleep."

"I suppose. How is the rescue effort going?"

Tialla pointed. "Look." Pelcyr looked and her eyes widened. There was a large crowd spread out far down the beach- anyone in the vicinity who could stand, by the looks of it. On an up-rooted tree stump at the centre of the crowd stood two figures. Pelcyr, even with sharp elven vision, had to squint to make out details, but one was immense, dark-haired and green-skinned, the other pale and petit. Mingled with the crowd and sprinkled throughout the survivors nearby the two Night Elves were uniformed guards- humans in Theramore white and Orcs in Horde red.

"Is that who I think that is?" gasped Pelcyr, turning to Tialla. The Druid nodded.

"Medarion and Ilsa went down there with the Death Knight to have a look."

"Death Knight?"

"He showed up when you- oh, yes! He said saw Beln and your Tauren friend in the water. Ilsa thinks they're alive somewhere. He said he saw the Tauren pull Beln out of the water onto some debris."

Pelcyr couldn't help it- she felt tears of happiness welling up and hastily wiped them away. Beln and Ironcore alive! Lost, but Pelcyr doubted that would matter. They had survived. Beln was tough, he was tenacious and she had yet to see any task too daunting to truly break his spirit. If he was with Ironcore, then they were safe.

"Thank Elune," Pelcyr whispered and smiled up at the falling night. There was the tiniest sliver of moon tonight, just enough for the priestess to murmur her thanks to.

"Would you like to go down and see what's happening?" asked Tialla. She obviously wanted to go, craning her head to peer at the crowd and the two celebrity figures in the centre of it. Pelcyr shook her head.

"You can tell me about it. I'll just sit here and watch the stars a bit," she said. Tialla got up, then paused.

"Can I ask you a… personal question?"

"Um, maybe. How personal?"

"About your brother."

"Oh! Sure. Ask away."

"He's carrying a bit of a torch for me, isn't he?"

Pelcyr laughed. "I thought you were going to ask- nevermind. Yes, he definitely is."

Tialla smiled. "Good," she said and then she was gone, loping down slope.

Minutes later, Ilsa returned. She looked just as haggard as she had the night before but she was smiling.

"How is it?" asked Pelcyr.

"Weird," replied Ilsa, "standing elbow to elbow with people that probably would have attacked us two days ago if we ran into them, watching two leaders from different factions who obviously respect each other offer condolences and dole out support side by side. Very weird."

"Helloo."

Both women started and looked up. Ironcore's Troll friend stood in front of them holding a clay pot. He gestured to it, then to them and held it out. Pelcyr stood up and accepted the pot. It smelled like Mageroyal. It was hot and she set it down quickly, then bowed and thanked him. He didn't leave. He sat down on the log beside Pelcyr. Ilsa and Pelcyr traded looks out of the corner of their eyes.

The Troll began speaking with a voice that evoked deep dark places and glowing eyes peering out of verdant foliage. He seemed to be telling a story, though neither Ilsa nor Pelcyr could understand him. He gestured with his hands, stood up at one point and raised his arms above his head, fingers crooked into claws, stomped his foot, then sat back down. At the end, he draped his elbows over his knees and sat forward, shoulders slumped, dejected and weary.

Pelcyr reached for the bowls they had used for stew and poured the tea into three of them. She offered the Troll one and he took it listlessly. They sat that way for several minutes before any of them said anything.

"I think he was talking about Ironcore," said Ilsa finally. "They were friends. And it was his son that she found, dead, when she helped you out, wasn't it?" Pelcyr nodded, feeling a swell of sympathy for the Shaman. She turned to him. He was looking away, toward the ocean. She poked him gently in the arm. He met her gaze with a grunt. Pelcyr stood up on her tip-toes, one hand as far above her head as she could reach. Then she mimed swinging a two-handed weapon, put her hands beside her head and pointed her fingers to mimc horns. The Troll nodded, looking unhappy. Encouraged, Pelcyr pointed to the ocean, made water noises and lifted her hands like a wave. Then she pointed to Ilsa.

"You be Beln," she said. Ilsa stood up and awkwardly acted out a tail, horns, facial tentacles and Beln's enthusiastic swagger. The Troll laughed at her charade but he was nodding. Pelcyr made more terrifying water noises and fell back. Ilsa staggered beside her, then went limp. Pelcyr grabbed her and made swimming motions, trying to look brave and tough. The Troll was still laughing, but he was looking distinctly more cheerful. Finally, Pelcyr pulled Ilsa onto the log and held her hands out like she was healing someone.

The Troll nodded, grinning, and stood up. He paused, turned and before Pelcyr could stop him, he'd wound one of her long feathery eyebrows around his fingertip. She gave a surprised chirrup and just as quickly, he pulled back and ambled away.

---------------------------------------------------

Two basilisks was no problem. But the noise attracted four more, and that noise attracted vultures, which signaled to the hyenas that there was potential food in the offing and while the vultures were quite willing to circle, darting in to snag bites, the hyenas were active predators.

Beln found himself on his back with a hungry and determined hyena on his chest. Only the impact of his back hitting the ground had saved him from getting a face full of teeth immediately. It had jarred the beast as much as it had him and it gave him time to jam his sword between the creature's jaws. It died surprised, tonguing the blade in confusion.

Ironcore's dagger was buried in the armpit of one basilisk. One of the hyenas darted forward, aiming to hamstring her. She whirled around, twisting the dagger and kicked the beast in the chest. It staggered backward, opening and closing its mouth and shaking its head, dazed. She finished off the basilisk and laid out another one with successive towers of energy.

"Beln, get behind me!" she yelled. The Draenei scrambled out of the fray, slashing at a persistant basilisk. Ironcore raised her hands above her head, calling for something and suddenly the sky answered, seemed to darken and the air charged with electricity, stinking of lightning. Cords of raw power sizzled down, each seeking an adversary, illuminating the thrashing battle in jagged flashes. One hyena struggled forward enough to reach her, teeth scraping her hoof. Beln jabbed it in the neck and it fell back, caught by the barbs of lightning.

The vultures had the sense to flee the second the sky darkened but everything else within the circle of Ironcore's power died.

"There's going to be fat vultures out here for a while," said Beln in awe.

Ironcore was panting. Her robe had been torn open and she slowly removed it entirely, grimacing at the rising sun. "Well, maybe the next day or so will be uneventful," she said, "just to make up for everything else." It had been a nightmare of a day. They had started moving again at midnight, jogging through the desert once it was cool. Although they had made excellent progress, their motion seemed to alert every hungry animal with decent hearing that there was food on the hoof. Now they were both exhausted with no shelter in sight and the sun was rising on the eastern horizon.

Beln bent down to clean his sword on the pelt of a hapless hyena and felt the parrot alight on his head again. It had taken off the moment the first basilisk arrived, winging up into the sky with determination.

"You are one lucky bird," he said and reached up to pet its indigo feathers.

"Beln," said Ironcore suddenly, "Look."

He looked and he saw, wavering in the heat, near the distant horizon, a dark bump.

"Shelter," she said. They ran, trying to beat the imminent sun, sand thrown up in plumes from their hooves. They were both out of breath by the time they arrived at the rock formation. It was cool and defensible and as they slumped down, side by side, Ironcore turned to her companion, smiling.

"We make a good team."

Beln grinned back and nodded.

"Can I give you that ring from my tail yet?"

She laughed. "Only if I may give you a proper Brave name, because you're definitely proving yourself right now."

Beln twisted round and slid the gold band off his thick tail. "I hope it fits," he said. He caught her gaze for a second by accident, eyes so dark they were almost black, and felt his spine tingle. If she noticed, she didn't let on.

Ironcore twisted the tuft on her tail into a tight spiral to slide the band on but it fit. She twitched her tail, admiring it.

"My, my. What are Pelcyr and Medarion going to say?"


	9. Taub, Stumm, Blind

**A/N : I don't think I stated this to anyone before, but the purpose of this story is for me to explore writing about love in all its forms. Not all loving relationships are romantic ones, so not everyone is getting paired off with someone else. I _bleuch_ when that happens. ;) Also, yes, I have been watching nature programs and yes, I really did name Ironcore for the reason described in this chapter. I am not ashamed of my nerdiness. ;) Also, ten imaginary dollars to the person who can name the game being played by the group in the inn!**

CHAPTER 9 – _Taub, Stumm, Blind_

Ilsa sat on the log, frustrated. She could mend minor injuries, though not as well as a true healer like Pelcyr, or like the Troll Shaman. She could cook for the survivors, but it was awkward one-handed. Her legs worked, so she could walk and participate in the search and rescue effort, but she couldn't defend herself and the predators of the Barrens could identify a defenseless creature from miles away. In short, she was useless. So she sat on the log, depressed, and watched Pelcyr help people.

"You look like the very picture of misery," said a familiar voice. Ilsa glanced up at the Death Knight, Vedenrith. He had stabled his undead mare under the care of the Windrider Master, with very specific instructions not to let her move around.

"I can't do anything useful."

"Perhaps not, but you are making this sad place a touch more attractive," he said and smiled. For ex-Scourge, he was quite charming. "Come. I have no mount and no skills to aid the living, but if you can walk and if you want to join the search parties, I'll come with you to keep you safe." Ilsa got to her feet.

"I'll take you up on that offer," she said. He held out a bony elbow for her and she took it, just a little gingerly. "I guess it's true what they say," she smirked, "chivalry really _is_ dead."

After several hours of hiking through the scruffy Barrens terrain, Ilsa had become more impressed by the Death Knight. Nothing came near them. Beasts seemed to sense instantly that Vedenrith was not to be trifled with and made wide detours to avoid the pair. So far they hadn't discovered anything more interesting than some water-logged supply crates, but it was still better than sitting on the prairie doing nothing.

Ilsa climbed steadily to the peak of a hill, intent on finding out what was behind it. Vedenrith followed her at a leisurely pace, keeping her in sight. She was glad he didn't hover; she wasn't incapable, she was just a bit handicapped at the moment.

There was a long plateau behind the hill that lead off southwest. Ilsa slid down to it, dusted off the seat of her trousers and peered over the edge. There was something down there, something that wasn't natural debris.

"Vedenrith!" she hollered. The Death Knight appeared at the peak of the hill. "There's something down here! Come have a look!" She considered the drop. It wasn't terribly far and if she was in perfect health, she might have tried half-sliding, half-falling the distance to reach the wreckage. She couldn't risk a break or sprain right now though, so she paced on the edge of the plateau, searching for another way down.

Without warning, a snarl of shadow energy burst past her- not coming from Vedenrith, but directed towards him. Ilsa turned, confused, to follow its trajectory and her eyes widened. Three figures- an Orc, a Tauren and a Blood Elf- all armoured to the teeth and looking none too friendly emerged from the scrubby undergrowth along the northern part of the plateau. The Orc, a Warlock judging by the hulking minion now breaking cover to charge at Ilsa and her protector, shouted something. A streak of black and purple careened past Ilsa and hooked the Orc like a speared fish, hauling him up into Vedenrith's reach. The felguard minion thundered past the huntress, intent on aiding its master. The Blood Elf barely gave her a second look as he drew a sword and rushed the embattled Death Knight.

The Tauren focused on Ilsa. She was too frightened to move or speak. She had never faced anyone so well-armed and experienced and she knew exactly what outcome this fight would have. As she drew her dagger- the only weapon she had- she felt anger and betrayal. How dare they attack when there was greater work to be done? Ilsa and Vedenrith were only trying to help! There might be wounded Horde members down below the plateau in that wreckage and Ilsa certainly wouldn't have minded lending a hand.

Add to that, Ilsa admitted she had become rather accustomed to not entirely fearing the Horde, between Ironcore and her Troll friend. And now, here was a Tauren who _absolutely_ meant her harm. He advanced with decisive, ground-shaking steps. He knew he had her cornered and out-gunned. Ilsa's fury grew. She was tired of not being able to do anything!

"Ilsa!" bellowed Vedenrith between bone-crushing blows, "GET OUT OF HERE!"

The Tauren charged. Ilsa held her ground until he was almost on her and then she did the only thing she could think of: she leapt backwards, off the plateau.

For a second, she was in free-fall, watching the Tauren's astonished face as she escaped from certain death. Then she struck the face of the slope with her heels, somersaulted over backwards and drew her arms around her head, grimacing as her broken arm was jarred and scraped. She hit a patch of brush, tried to seize the bristly plant with her good hand, failed, but managed to slow her wild tumble to a controlled slide and straightened her legs, digging her heels into the dusty soil. She passed the debris she wanted to examine and suddenly there was the lip of another precipice passing beneath her. Ilsa yelped and fell over the edge, grabbing desperately for any hand-hold. This cliff was steeper but she wasn't moving as quickly and-

She bumped into something, hard. It stopped her descent and for a moment she just sat and blinked, bewildered, finding herself on another, smaller plateau and not moving. Then she saw what had stopped her fall.

It was a lion.

She had run into a young male lion, judging from his scruffy mane. He was just as surprised as she was, for a second. Then he raised a paw, curled his lips back from menacing yellow teeth and slapped at her. Ilsa kicked out, hitting him in the rump and putting enough distance between them that his swat didn't connect. She held up her dagger and was amazed when he whirled away from her.

Then she realized it wasn't her he was responding to. There was a fat spotted hyena harassing him from the other side and it had bitten him in the flank when he turned his attention to Ilsa. Now he lunged at the hyena, ignoring Ilsa. She saw her chance to escape as the hyena skittered backwards, giggling in terror, and scrambled in the opposite direction from the battle. She knew lions and hyenas had some kind of age-old enmity between them, so hopefully they would stay engaged with their little war without bothering the human.

But the hyena alone was no match for a lion, even a half-grown one. Ilsa, climbing one-handed down the slope, wondered if maybe the lion hadn't ambushed the unfortunate creature. She paused. The lion would have mauled her without much resistance if the hyena hadn't nipped it at just the right moment. She pulled herself back up, took aim and flung her knife. It hit the lion just behind the ear, stuck for a moment and then fell. The lion whipped around, yowling, confused and Ilsa stood up, raising her arms, making herself look as big as she could.

"PISS OFF!" she shouted and stomped her feet menacingly. The hyena took the chance to sink its teeth into the base of the lion's tail. He turned again, spitting angrily, but the hyena spun with him, staying by his flank. Ilsa had no more weapons, but she bent to pick up a rock and whipped it, striking the lion in the shoulder. He was young and annoyed and confused and with one final throaty hiss, he bounded off the plateau, landing with ease and galloped off.

Ilsa looked at the hyena. It was panting and sitting down, chubby sides heaving. Then she noticed something behind the hyena, a small, velvety black heap of something, bleeding and immobile.

"Oh," said Ilsa softly. "He… your cub. You poor girl..."

The hyena paused panting, licked her nose and eyed Ilsa. Compared to Rose, who had been sleek and elegant, the hyena was a round, scruffy, comical creature, but the bravery she showed trying to defend her cub was the same that Ilsa had seen in the red wolf.

Ilsa's heart was still pounding, but no longer from fear. She knelt down and reached out to the beast with her good hand in a gesture of friendship. She concentrated. She tried to project strength and comraderie, thinking about how the two of them had just driven off a lion, working together for the good of both.

The hyena got up and came towards her, fluffy tail held straight up, head low, curious but wary. Ilsa continued to focus her good will and confidence on the animal, silently damning the fact she didn't have any food with her. Food looked like it would have been a deal-maker for the pudgy hyena.

Ilsa held her ground as the beast sniffed her fingers, then her wrist, then looked into her face. She had named Rose because it was the only _red _thing she could think of at the moment when the big wolf was standing inches from her. Later, she told her companions it was for the circular cowlick on the wolf's chest that looked like the shape of an open rose.

The hyena was a non-descript yellowy colour with murky darker blotches on her body and neck. She had some smaller spots on her face, but under her right eye were three precise dark dashes that looked like…

"Thorns," said Ilsa and smiled triumphantly, sitting back on her haunches as Thorns the hyena snuffled her hair and made contented grunts to her new friend.

----------------------------------------------------

Beln was sound asleep in the shaded cavern. Day was waxing to afternoon and the shadow made by the rocky hide-out was growing longer and deeper. Ironcore sat in the shadow, listening to the desert and sniffing the hot wind occasionally for any cues her ears missed and absently petting the parrot's back. Every now and then, she would turn and give her young companion a long look.

She had accepted his gift in high spirits, joking with him, flirting as she had done when she was younger and on some campaign or another, surrounded by comrades in arms. Now, with the yellow band clasped heavily on her tail, Ironcore questioned herself. All of her old arguments to Samoj came up again: their ages were too different, their lives going in opposite directions, their leaders at the very least frosty if not overtly hostile. When Ironcore returned to civilization, she would accept the herbalist posting in Grom'gol and leave Kalimdor for an unspecified length of time. What would Beln do? Where would he go? He couldn't follow her to Grom'gol.

But for all her years of wisdom and experience, Ironcore couldn't fight the feeling in her gut. She remembered the first time she met Tothran, as he was dragging his wounded self back from some battle in the north. He had been completely unknown to her, but she liked the way he held himself, how he spoke to others, his smile and his self-deprecating humour while he healed up. His Brave name was Springthunder and she teased him about it so he would notice her. He responded in kind and for months their courtship went on in this fashion, much to the amusement of their peers. Then they had been paired up for a patrol that went horribly awry. It started out routine and ended with the two of them fending off a constant stream of gnolls with their bare fists, confessing their feelings for each other on top of a termite mound, certain they wouldn't survive the night.

Ironcore smiled to herself. They had been mated for only four years when he died in battle, but those had been four _good_ years. Four years where she always had back-up, always had someone to eat with and sleep with, always had someone to tell about a particularly hilarious Druid screw-up, or a stunning moment of beauty, or a nightmare, or a stray thought. After Tothran's death, she had been numb for even longer. She worked hard, she ranged far and further from her familiar territory. She felt like she was looking and never finding anything.

Then An'kili was born and Ironcore took the first Windrider out of Un'Goro Crater to see her best friend's son. She stayed closer to home then, took up her apartment in Orgrimmar and tried to immerse herself in the positive parts of life.

Despite the warmth of Samoj's family and the fulfillment she felt in her work, there was always an emptiness way back in her mind, still waiting, still looking for something.

She twisted round again and studied Beln.

Was this what she had been looking for? Samoj was right- you couldn't help who you liked and sometimes you really did like someone you barely knew. And as she grew to know Beln better, she liked him better. That wasn't the easiest thing to accept, circumstances being what they were, but there it was.

"Beln," she said softly, settling the parrot on her shoulder and giving the Draenei a nudge, "Time to get moving. We can make Gadgetzan by sunrise and sleep in a real inn with real beds."

"With real straw mattresses and real fleas?" he replied around a yawn.

"Absolutely."

"Then by all means, let us be on our way!"

They ran all night, side by side, and the goblin city was in sight on the horizon as the sun rose. Ironcore's eyes itched from the sand and dryness. They had used up all of the water they had thieved from the pirates several hours ago and she was parched.

"I can't run anymore," panted Beln and slowed to a walk, hooves dragging in the sand. The Tauren stopped and waited for him to catch up, then fell into step beside him. "My legs feel like lead." He turned his face up to her, glowing eyes widening with feigned innocence. "Can you carry me, lovely lady?"

Ironcore snorted. "I was just about to ask you the same thing."

"Ugh. One day, if someone asks me to run a favour for them in Tanaris I'll politely decline. Prophet! And I thought the Barrens was bad at midday."

"We're almost there, and then inn and water and food. And bath. Definitely a bath."

They were both panting, hot and exhausted by the time they passed through the doors into the city. The blue parrot drooped, scrunched down on Ironcore's shoulder in the shadow of her thick neck. Beln followed Ironcore as she plodded in a bee-line for the inn.

"Welcome brother," said a silvery female voice and a hand fell on his shoulder, "You look as though you crossed the desert afoot!" Both he and the Druid turned and found themselves in the presence of a female Draenei Paladin, radiating holiness. She smiled at Beln, somehow missing Ironcore's presence entirely.

"I'm going to die on my hooves if I don't get a drink," he rasped and gave her a lop-sided smile, before turning back toward the inn with single-minded determination. The Paladin followed.

"You look too young to be out here on your own."

"He's not on his own," rumbled Ironcore and the Paladin started at the Tauren speaking Common.

"How is this-?"

"Paladin, my name is Beln. This is my friend Ironcore."

"We're both _very_ thirsty," said Ironcore, not unfriendly, just distracted. The Paladin narrowed her eyes and said in Draenei,

"Are you a hostage?"

Beln stopped and looked down at the woman, surprised and yet, he shouldn't have been. Her fingers roamed over the haft of the axe on her belt. "No," he said simply, "she is my friend. I go with her willingly."

"This is most peculiar," said the Paladin, baffled, "But if what you say is the truth- ah! She is a Druid! Is she of the Cenarion Circle?"

"The what?"

"Druid," said the Paladin, scampering after Ironcore on slender hooves, "are you one of the Cenarion Circle?"

"No," said Ironcore, puzzled at first and then a light went on and she straightened up. "Not yet." Still bewildered, the Paladin shadowed them to the inn, where Ironcore produced a threadbare pouch from inside her vest and counted out enough silver for a room and meals. She paused. She could technically afford two rooms but it would leave them with less than a silver and who could buy anything with a handful of copper?

"You are more than friends," said the Paladin in astonishment as the arrangements were settled and the innkeeper handed Ironcore two metal cups and a clay pitcher full of water. Beln turned to the woman at his elbow. She wasn't being hostile, but she was definitely shocked.

"We're friends," he said, "who have no money."

"Would you care to join us, Paladin?" asked Ironcore, seeing that the woman wasn't easily discouraged and more than a little inquisitive.

"No thank you, Druid. I must be about my own business." The two women gave a mutual nod and then the Paladin murmured in Draenei once the Tauren's back was turned, "I do not know what the truth of this situation is, but I will be watching you."

"There is really no need," Beln replied hastily. He was coming to realize she would be watching them not for his safety but for the possibility of acquiring great gossip material. The Paladin clucked her tongue.

"Such a waste," she said and then she was gone in a swirl of cloak. Beln sighed and joined Ironcore at a table tucked under the stairs. It was cozy and personal and not in plain view. He sat down.

"Well, we're alive," said Ironcore. She had downed half the flagon of water and was already looking more alert. Beln nodded and drank deeply. It was invigorating. "You don't mind sharing a room, do you?"

Beln shook his head and poured another cup of water for himself. "It's no different than sharing a raft or a patch of desert."

"Though one of us won't be sitting up on guard duty while the other sleeps," she said. The innkeeper approached bearing a platter of fruit, bread, cheese and dried fish and set it on the table. They thanked him and tucked into the simple food.

"This is much more delicious than burned basilisk," said Beln enthusiastically.

"I don't know, the basilisk had a… unique flavor," replied Ironcore around a mouthful of meat and cheese. That the Taurens ate meat was something he had found surprising when they first met, but later Medarion offered him a practical explanation: something that big simply wouldn't be able to get enough energy from a diet of straight vegetable matter. Plus, they loved the hunt.

"Yes," said Beln emphatically, "_charcoal_. This is real food." The Druid shrugged one shoulder.

"As long as it's not poisoned, I'll find it agreeable."

"Too many years spent living in the wild for you!" said Beln, appalled, "When we return to Ratchet- or whatever is left of it- I will make you some _good_ food. What do you do when you're alone in the wilderness?"

"Make do," she said. "And pine for inns and restraunts."

Beln was shaking his head. "You're this old and you never learned to cook properly. I take it all back- the Horde _are_ barbarians."

"I can make excellent tea," Ironcore protested. "To counteract my dismal cooking skills."

"You can't live on tea," argued Beln.

"No, but you _can_ live on blackened basilisk."

"That's not living, that's _surviving_."

Ironcore chuckled. "Cooking well is for special occasions. Feasts to celebrate births and deaths, pairings, reunions, triumphs, anniversaries. Not for everyday."

"Why not? Your people have suffered much in their past. Why not celebrate everyday with something good to eat?"

"It takes time and energy to prepare good food," Ironcore argued, "which could be better spent doing something more productive."

"More productive than eating?"

"You're very passionate about your food."

"When it's _good_ food, of course, yes!" said Beln. He was eying the remaining bread and cheese. Ironcore gestured for him to help himself and took another long swallow of water.

"Tea is easier to carry with you and faster to prepare. Good tea makes life better."

Beln raised his cup. "To that, I can agree most readily." They clinked cups. "Do we have enough copper to get some cold tea?" Ironcore poked through the forlorn little purse.

"We have quite a bit, actually. Here," she said and passed him half of their ill-gotten gains. Beln approached the inn-keeper, stating his request and forked over more than he really thought tea should cost. He waited at the counter, watching the other patrons idlly. There was a trio of Orcs in the far corner, near the window. The two females seemed to be having a laugh at the male's expense. Beln smirked ruefully. This was the same in all species. Closer to the door, a group of humans, dwarves and one gnome were playing a rowdy game of something involving a board of hexagonal tiles and wooden markers shaped like little houses. It also seemed to require a steady supply of drinking and swearing. Despite the inn being nearly full to capacity, the only table mixing factions was the one he shared with Ironcore.

The innkeeper returned with a sturdy teapot and a cup of chipped ice. Beln accepted it and return to the table. Ironcore watched him drop ice into the strong black tea to cool it.

"Did you have a feast when you got married?" he asked suddenly.

She nodded, smiling in remembrance. "Of course. We were both far from home- in Durotar, without many other Taurens- so it was a… multi-cultural affair. But we had excellent food. Things I've never even had before. Trolls will eat _anything_. And it was good!" she said brightly. "What about your people? Are you all gourmets?"

Beln nodded and before he knew what he was saying, the words tumbled out of his mouth. "My sister- she was a fantastic cook. She could make anything taste good. Probably basilisk, given the right spices and some sort of glaze. We always had guests at our meals."

"Sister?" said Ironcore, folding her arms on the table and leaning forward with interest.

"Krezya," Beln continued, "was twenty-six years older than me. She died when the Exodar crashed… and so did my father, my uncle, his wife, my niece and nephews…" Beln looked down at his hands, twisting around the metal cup. He had not spoken of his family to anyone. People assumed and they assumed correctly.

"Beln," murmured Ironcore and reached across the table to place her large hand over his. He stretched out two fingers and she hooked one of hers around them. "I am deeply sorry for what you have lost," she said gently and simply held his hand while he examined the grain of the tabletop.

"My mother lived," he said, "for a few weeks. She was strong and unhurt… at least, on the outside. She worked without rest, without food, tracking down survivors, bringing them back to the crash site to be healed. She couldn't sleep, she couldn't stop moving. I watched her… she just…" He shrugged and looked up at the Druid. "She just couldn't get back what she lost. And she worked herself to death trying."

Ironcore's dark eyes shone with sympathy and Beln swallowed. He didn't like being pitied and normally tried to throw off the concern of others with firm optimism. The past was the past. He couldn't change it, but he could try to make a better future. But the past was all his young life and it dragged at him now, recounting unbidden memories. Pelcyr was a joyous friend but she wasn't his audacious, wine-loving sister, nor his guileless, toddling niece. He missed Krezya silently, seeing her raucous laugh in Ilsa, her rock-steady self-assurance in Medarion. He had subconsciously gravitated toward people who reminded him of his dearest companions, but those companions were gone and irreplacable.

"How did you bear it?" he said, suddenly on the verge of tears, "When your husband died?"

"I…" said the Tauren, and put her other hand over top his. He gripped her fingers relentlessly, but he needed to hang onto something and she was so solid. "Do you know what our Brave names are, Beln?"

He shook his head.

"We earn them. We are given a name at birth that is ours within our family and our tribe and among our closest friends. My name is Kafa." Beln distantly realized she had given him a true gift at that moment, but he could only concentrate on holding her hands in his and not giving himself up to his grief, not yet. "I was Kafa Winterhoof for several years, until I was fully trained as a Druid and capable of doing my duty as a soldier of the Horde. I have fought many battles. I have seen savagery and horror and I have lived through it. I lost friends. I lost lovers. I lost family. Again and again, I would join the battle and again and again, I was the last one left standing.

"Samoj and I had a friend growing up, an Orc named Gesh. He was a Warlock, not something Orcs are terribly comfortable with, and he was a bit outcast. He was fated to be that, talented with dark magics and smart enough to walk the line safely. But what he loved was machines- the goblin's zeppelins, the gnomish bombs and guns. He took up as an engineer, learning as much as he could from anyone who could teach him.

"One night there was a battle. There were five of us- Gesh, Toia, Mok'Thahir, Jarlen and myself- who were friends and would ward each other in each fight. At the end of the night, there were two of us and Gesh was dying. He laughed and made light that I had survived again where everyone else died around me," she said. There was bitterness in her voice, but it had been tempered by time and loss. "_He_ named me Ironcore, after something he learned in his studies. There are certain elements in the world that boast great natural power. Each of these elements diminishes by halves over a length of time, each to its own span, and becomes other elements each time it is halved. They are all different, halving at different rates, becoming different things in different orders. In the end, however… everything turns to iron. It is the final element of this process, everytime, no matter what material it began as. Iron is all that survives."

She sighed and reached up to caress Beln's cheek with one hand. He bit his lip but couldn't stop his glowing eyes from overflowing with tears. If they were for himself and what he had lost, then it was high time he shed them. If they were for his friend and what she had lost, then she deserved them too.

"I am the one who survives, every time," she said and there was pain and longing in her voice, "And I am afraid to love you because of it."


	10. Absolution

**A/N: Profuse apologies for the MOST unseemly delay in updating. Life happened (as it is perversely wont to do at the most inconvenient of plot-points). Updates will continue every OTHER Monday, unless my schedule changes. Anyway- onwards! In which some things end, some things begin, some things change and Vedenrith rocks the emo card as only a DK can.**

CHAPTER 10 - Absolution

Beln unraveled his grip from hers and hastily swiped at his eyes with sandy gloves.

"I survived too," he said, voice husky, "when everyone I loved didn't." He pushed his hands across the table again, seeking her grip and looked down as she twined his fingers with hers. "I left Azuremist Isle as fast as I could," he continued, "because I couldn't bear to be the only one of my family remaining. It was worse than being alone. In Darnassus or Stormwind, I'm just one of many Draenei and no one asks me whether any of my relatives are alive. I never seek to travel with my people. I don't want to know what they lost and I don't want to tell them about myself. It's too much pain. Do you… you don't avoid your people, do you?"

"No," replied Ironcore, "I feel better among them."

"Do you have any family left?" he asked, searchingly. She nodded once.

"My brother yet lives and his daughter, my niece." Beln nodded, and happiness bubbled up within him; he was glad she still had them.

"Do you see them often?"

"No. My niece lives in Silvermoon City now. My brother is a guard at Freewind Post in Thousand Needles, so I see him sometimes if I am passing through the area. Beln, I understand why you were so eloquent in your letter now… You love them still and you miss them." She reached out and cradled his jaw in her palm. Beln leaned into it and nodded, closing his eyes. "Every day, I am glad we met." Beln smiled and remembered her appearing out of the early morning fog, driving instant fear into himself and Medarion, only to prove the least terrifying being they had encountered on their journey.

"Why did An'kili run away?" he asked, "Your friend Samoj doesn't seem like such a terrible person."

Ironcore sighed and sat back, putting her hands behind her head. Beln rearranged himself to watch her. "An'kili was very fond of his mother. He wanted to train as a hunter, like her. Samoj thought he was too young. They quarreled frequently about it."

"He _was_ too young," said Beln gravely.

"Yes, he was but what was your reply when you were twelve and believed yourself invincible?"

Beln nodded, admitting he had been raring to begin his training long before he could successfully handle a sword and shield simultaneously.

"They fought about it for years and Samoj kept holding him back from the training, even after his friends had gone off in their chosen directions. I didn't interfere- he was Samoj's and Jashi's child, not mine, and Trolls are fierce with their families. But then An'kili discovered something that made up his mind- he _wasn't_ Samoj's son."

Beln's eyebrows went up.

"Trolls have a flexible view of monogamy," said Ironcore wryly. "That Jashi had a tryst with someone else wasn't unique. That it resulted in Samoj losing his claim of control over An'kili… that was unfortunate. And An'kili fought with him again and took off, defying him. Samoj was so wounded by it he was sure the boy would never listen to him if he followed him and Jashi thought he would come back. Samoj asked me to look for him, so I did."

"He must have had some skill," said Beln gently, "to make it all the way across the Barrens and into the mountains. That's impressive."

"It was," agreed Ironcore, a little tinge of pride in her voice, "but it was also to his detriment. I- well. Samoj and I have been more than friends. His son was as close as I ever got to being a mother."

Beln's eyebrows rose again. "The Troll?" he said, remembering how he slid his sinuous arm over her shoulders and the complacency with which Samoj had accepted her grip on his tusks. "I- uh, I- that is- I, well, I guess that's- you're- nevermind, it's not my business."

She chuckled. "It was a _long_ time ago, Beln, before An'kili was born, before he met Jashi. I was probably your age when we realized that while we liked each other fine enough, we didn't like each other in that sense. Hormones make it all very confusing, whether you're _in_ love with someone or you love them."

"Is there a difference?"

"Yes. Sexual attraction."

"Oh!"

"I loved Samoj and we thought that meant we should be lovers. It took a few years to realize we could be good friends and that was how we were better off."

Beln was about to make a cheeky remark, then he paused. He took a sip of water. "When you said you were afraid to love me… which kind of love was that?"

Ironcore squirmed, a delightfully girlish reaction in a grown woman that said as much as her verbal answer. "I am _greatly_ attracted to you, damn me." Beln thought laughing aloud was definitely not the right reaction- even if the laughter was joyous- but her look and tone made it hard to fight back.

"Really? It doesn't bother you that I don't have fur?" he teased.

"Samoj doesn't have fur either," she said indulgently. "And I liked that just fine." Beln found himself blushing.

"I didn't think you… I thought you liked me, but in the other way," he said.

"Oh I tried."

"S-so did I," he replied in a whisper. Ironcore cocked her head to the side and widened her dark eyes at him.

"Are you sure that's not the hormones talking?"

"I'm not _that_ young!"

Ironcore smiled. "Your letter was very ambiguous. So were our conversations. I did wonder if I was… alone." He shook his head firmly.

"No, never alone. Never. I thought you wouldn't be interested in anything but friendship, so that's what I offered. I- my brain hasn't entirely caught up to this conversation yet. When it does, it's going to be surprised." He grinned at her and slid his ankles around hers under the table. Having no tablecloth, this act was as obvious to anyone watching them as their hand-holding.

"Hmm… If your mind works anything like mine, I don't think it will be so surprised. This is a challenge though. What will you do while I am in Stranglethorn?"

Beln pondered. "I've heard it is a dangerous place, but also full of wonder. I… Thank the Naaru for goblins. I can train in Booty Bay."

Ironcore's eyes widened. "Full of predators, more like. And tribes of nasty, blood-thirsty Trolls." She paused and considered her companion. He had done well in the desert, better than she would have expected and he learned quickly. "I imagine the raptor population will need thinning again…" She leaned across the table toward him. "Beln, if you train in Strangelthorn while I am tenured in Grom'gol, there may come a day when we are… more closely matched in fighting skill. Your leaders will notice your progress and they will want to dedicate a future for you. What do you have in mind?"

"I don't know. I'm sure there are options- I joined the Argus Knights because I did want to protect our people from… from the Blood Elves. They were our biggest threat when we crashed. Then there were Orcs… our oldest enemy. Now, there is the Scourge." He shook his head, troubled. "The Scourge don't care about Horde and Alliance. They kill everything, Draenei, Blood Elves, Orcs... I think… that's what I should be fighting."

Ironcore nodded. "I agree. There are threats bigger than any one race. My people, we fought with the centaurs for generations." She sighed. "And all the time we were fighting with them, the Scourge was eating away at the livingand the demonic influence of the Burning Crusade spread into places that were once _beautiful_. Azeroth itself is sick. To me, there is nothing more important than the world."

"Druid," smiled Beln.

"And you, warrior, you would stand before the legions of the Scourge with your sword and your shield and stand your ground, wouldn't you?"

"Yes. That is what I would do."

"I have already given my word that I will go to Grom'gol, but while I am there, I will write a letter to an old friend who joined the Cenarion Circle many years ago."

Beln nodded. "It's a good idea but… isn't it just Druids? What could I do for them? I have the worst grip on magic of anyone I know and I can't commune with the earth like you can."

"I'll need someone to guard me when I'm communing," she smiled, "And other Druids will appreciate a sword and shield on their side as well. It used to be just Druids- the Circle used to be only Night Elf Druids- but their purpose has grown and their membership too." She pressed his hands in hers and her eyes came alive, a tiny speck of glowing green in the depths of each, something ardently alive, wild and strong. "Come with me, Beln. Join with me."

He found he couldn't deny her, and didn't want to anyway.

"Yes!"

Ilsa and Thorns stuck to the coast as they made their way back to the ruins of Ratchet. There had been pirates and sea monsters and the unruly Northwatch guards in this area before, but thanks to the tsunami, these threats had been either eliminated, or distracted to the point where they didn't care about Ilsa limping by them.

It was early evening by the time she returned to the camp. The first person to notice her was Pelcyr, who alerted her brother with a shout and came running down the wreckage-strewn strand. Ilsa smiled tiredly.

"What happened?" gasped Pelcyr, looking from Ilsa's ragged sling, to the hyena lurking at her side, to the fresh bruises and scrapes. "I thought Vedenrith went with you!"

"He did. We were attacked- three-"

"Ah," said Medarion with a nasty grin, "they're being handled."

"They're alive?" Ilsa's heart sank. If they had come back from the battle…

"Yes. And I dare say they wish the Death Knight had finished them off. They violated the treaty."

"What treaty?"

"A non-aggression pact between Orgrimmar and Theramore. Ratchet was declared a disaster area. Since the goblins are technically neutral, both sides offered help," Pelcyr chimed. Medarion nodded to his sister.

"The terms of the treaty forbid acts of unprovoked violence."

"Did they say what happened to Vedenrith?" asked Ilsa, looking from one set of glowing eyes to the other. She'd never counted it before, but the siblings could easily be mistaken for twins: both had the same mauve skin, the same indigo hair, full lips and strong cheekbones. The only difference lay in Pelcyr's facial markings and Medarion's short beard. It was Medarion who shook his head slowly.

"He wasn't mentioned. We didn't know it was he and you that had been attacked until now." Ilsa sat down slowly, putting out her good hand and, after a moment's pause, felt a furry head thrust beneath her palm. She stroked the hyena absently.

"He told me to run," she said, "so I did." Pelcyr knelt beside her and put one arm around her shoulders. Thorns grunted a warning and backed off for a moment, then carefully sniffed the Night Elf before deciding she was acceptable.

"Come," said Pelcyr, "you should rest."

Two hours passed and Ilsa couldn't rest. She wandered between the tents, Thorns pacing at her side, ready with a challenging snort if anyone came too close. Between her over-protective pet and the deep expression of unhappiness she wore, everyone left her alone. Rose had died in Wailing Caverns, victim of a Fang Druid's mace. She'd lost Dyvaur to the tidal wave. Though she had been friends with the dwarf for less than a year, they'd shared a corny sense of humour and the same straight-forward approach to life. Now her new, albeit unusual, friend was lost as well.

As she reached the limit of the camp and turned to begin walking back, she caught sight of something- some_one_- stumbling towards them from the hills. It was unmistakably Vedenrith, though his horned helm had been ripped off. He took each step with great uncertainty and as Ilsa trotted toward him, calling his name, she could see he was shivering uncontrollably. He clasped his right hand to his left shoulder, bony fingers splayed on the ragged black fabric. The pauldron hung backwards and his entire left side was saturated with blood.

"Vedenrith!" she gasped as she pulled up beside him. He stared straight ahead, lips trembling as he drew tiny shallow breaths, and seemed not to notice her. She waved her good hand in front of him. "Vedenrith?"

"Cursed," said someone and Ilsa briefly glanced at a young Theramore soldier who had evidently followed her. "We'll need a priest."

"Pelcyr," said Ilsa and approached to give him something to lean on. The soldier pulled her back.

"Best not to touch him. Just try to lead him to the priest."

Ilsa didn't argue. She didn't know how curses worked; maybe it was contagious. "Veden- hey, can you hear me?" She planted herself in his path and looked him in the eye- there was a momentary spark, something brighter and more focused in his glowing gaze. "Okay, come with me. Pelcyr can fix you. This way."

As she turned around, her eyes caught something that made her freeze and double-take. The crooked fingers of his right hand weren't clutching an injured shoulder. They were pressing ruthlessly down on the stump of his missing left arm.

"King's honour!" she hissed and recoiled, horrified. She turned to look for her pet and found Thorns circling the Death Knight at a wary distance, not convinced by Ilsa's apparent trust of the ex-Scourge man. If this had been Rose, she would not have hesitated to tell her to fetch Pelcyr, but Thorns had only just met the Night Elf and Ilsa was certain she wouldn't understand if she told Thorns to find her. "Okay, Vedenrith? I'll be right back." Ilsa ran. She sprinted through the camp, dodging surprised survivors and hurtling campfires. Thorns thought this was the best thing they'd done all day and careened after her. They fell over each other at the tent Pelcyr had been using, Ilsa panting out a few select words to galvanize the priestess.

"Found Vedenrith- he's hurt, bad- cursed too. C'mon!"

Thorns bounded after the two women as they raced back through the tents. The hyena back-pedalled furiously upon realizing their destination was the waning Death Knight and commenced a cautious inspection from a safe distance. Vedenrith managed to stagger another few steps before he simply stopped, looking confused by his body's refusal to move and despite the soldier's warning, Ilsa caught him when he fell over. The curse remained attached to him and only him.

Pelcyr was murmuring soft words and lifting her hands, bright flecks of light twinkling around her fingers. The Death Knight's breath hitched suddenly and his body stiffened. His teeth came together with a snap, his eyes rolled and his spine creaked into a dramatic arch, then he collapsed across Ilsa's knees.

"What did you do? Is he okay?" she asked, staring at the chanting Night Elf.

"I removed the curse. It was- quite intense. I think it might have been keeping him from feeling his other injuries. He's passed out."

They worked on Vedenrith right there on the path. Ilsa took care of the practical aspects, swiping boiling water and cloth from the closest campfires, carefully removing his armour and holding rag after rag to the mutilated remains of his left shoulder while Pelcyr whispered and moved her hands and beseeched her goddess to save this man.

Thorns decided after about an hour that if anyone would go to this much trouble to help a person, they couldn't be too bad. She crept close enough to sniff Vedenrith's pale hair and once satisfied, lay down beside Ilsa with her heavy chin on her paws and went to sleep.

The sun was setting when the Death Knight regained consciousness. Ilsa helped him sit up and Medarion, who had followed his sister faithfully, offered him a cup of water. Pelcyr let out a long breath and slumped against Ilsa and Thorns.

"That was the most difficult thing I have ever done," she said in a wavering voice. Her hands were shaking and there were dark circles developing under her eyes but she didn't faint and she smiled triumphantly. "He will live."

"I'm still a little hazy on whether he was alive to begin with," said Medarion in Darnassian, flamboyant eyebrows meeting in consternation. "They are _dead_, aren't they? Didn't the minions of the Lich King make them from the corpses of-"

"Medarion," said Pelcyr tiredly, "He was bleeding all over the place, therefore I fixed him. And I suspect that if he bled out, he'd be dead."

"That actually makes me more confused."

She turned to look at her brother and smiled a bit at his frustration. "Eh. Me too."

"Hey," said Ilsa to Vedenrith, meanwhile, "You're gonna live."

"Ugh," said Vedenrith and reached for his left shoulder. Ilsa caught his hand.

"Careful. Pelcyr said it'd probably be tender for… a while."

"Of course," he rasped. He didn't try to stand or move anymore, just sat and held the cup of water in his one hand, staring at nothing.

"Thanks, Vedenrith," said Ilsa warmly and kissed the Death Knight on the forehead. He looked up, startled.

"For what?"

"For telling me to run. You saved my ass." She twisted round and scratched Thorns behind her notched ears. "And I found her because I ran." She smiled. "So, thanks."

"You're welcome," he replied, still a little bemused, and took a sip of water.

Ironcore excused herself from the table, determined to find enough water for a bath, claiming it didn't have to be _clean_, just cleaner than she was. Beln couldn't fault her for it- she smelled a bit like a hard-ridden horse and a bit like a wet dog. He probably wasn't much better off, but at least he didn't have fur. Now that he thought about it, she usually smelled rather pleasant- probably a side effect of her obsessive need to collect herbs and store them in pockets and packs.

The innkeeper offered Beln his own bath, claiming he'd discount the price since the two dirty travelers were lowering his property value. Beln rolled his eyes and accepted. As he untangled sand-hardened knots in his hair, he was glad he had agreed to lock his money pouch in the innkeeper's safe back in Ratchet. If there was one thing the goblin would be looking for in the ruins of his inn, it would be the safe. His sword, personal belongings and other clothes would surely be lost. His current clothes were all but ruined. They would have to do until they returned to Ratchet; there was nothing here that Beln could afford.

All through the bath, he couldn't stop yawning, a side-effect of learning to sleep during the day as well as the excitement of the past few days. More than anything, he needed a long, safe, uninterrupted sleep.

Ironcore met him outside their room, once again smelling faintly of Firebloom and looking just as weary as he felt. She smiled and ducked her head.

"Still agreeable with sharing a bed?"

"More than agreeable-" he replied and was silenced by another yawn, "-pray you aren't insulted when I fall unconscious the moment I lie down." She chuckled.

"Hardly," she said and had to stifle a yawn of her own behind her hand. They were both chuckling as she closed and locked the door, and leaned on each other as they took off their boots. "Tomorrow," she said, folding her ragged cloak neatly, "We'll fly out as soon as we've eaten. Samoj and Jashi are probably tearing up the coast looking for me and your friends are likely doing the same." She sat down on the edge of the bed and unwound the cords from the long locks of her mane that framed her face.

Beln looked at the floor. "I don't even know if they're alive. I was trying not to think about it."

"I don't think there's anything capable of separating those siblings," she said, "And your hunter friend is a strong woman." Beln tried to smile, yawned again and crawled in beside her. She was surprisingly fuzzy. He expected her fur to be more rough. He smiled to himself and put an arm around her waist. She made a sound somewhere between a hum and purr and he found that he wasn't _that_ tired after all. Ironcore wriggled around in his grip to face him.

"Good night," she murmured.

"Good afternoon," he replied wryly. They curled up together in a bed not quite meant for a Draenei and a Tauren and before either of them could ponder anymore of the more depressing aspects of the world, they were both asleep.

Night was falling on the Barrens. The coast was pocked with bonfires and the murmur of many people all together. Pelcyr sat with her brother and watched the world get back on its feet. Loads of lumber and tools had begun arriving that morning, shipped in via zeppelin or packed north from Dustwallow Marsh by eager young adventurers willing to help out. The sound of hammers and shouts of goblin foremen continued as the sun slipped around the edge of the planet. Ratchet was reforming itself.

"So… what now?" asked Pelcyr. She had learned more about the priestly art of healing in the last four days than she had in the last four months. Medarion shifted, settling back onto his elbows with a contented sigh.

"Tialla mentioned some desire to visit Desolace. I was thinking I might go with her."

Pelcyr nodded, a little smile creeping over her lips. "Do you want me to come with you?"

"What?" said the mage, startled, "Of course! I assumed you… you don't want to?"

"Well I thought I might give you two some time to bond. You know, get to know each other better away from the one person who could tell her you used to be afraid of wisps?"

Medarion chuckled. "Very kind of you, dear sister. I will always welcome your presence, embarrassing tales or no. And I must say, Tialla has little sense of her own mortality. Having you around would keep us together."

"Little sense? You're two of a kind, Med. You don't even know when I'm healing you sometimes!"

He snorted and nodded. "Do you like her?" he asked, turning an earnest face to his sibling.

Pelcyr nodded. "She's straight-forward, tough and self-sufficient." She paused. "If Beln doesn't come back," she swallowed, "she could make our group… whole."

Medarion seemed shaken. "Pel," he said, "of course he'll come back. The Death Knight saw him rescued by your Druid friend."

"But we don't _know_ that," said Pelcyr quietly, looking down at her hands in her lap. Medarion put an arm around her shoulders.

"I'd wager my wand on it. Besides, I think they have some kind of… _thing_… for each other. Rescuing him was just an excuse to be alone with him." He shuddered. Pelcyr laughed.

"What? That's silly. She's just a kind person."

Medarion arched his eyebrows. "Willing to place a bet?"

"Fine. My staff against your wand. You'll be so sorry to lose that," she said smugly. Medarion hugged her tightly.

"Ah, big sister- there are some things you aren't good at."

"What's she not good at?" said Ilsa, appearing at the edge of the firelight and crossing to the log to drop down tiredly beside Medarion. Thorns followed dutifully, pausing to sniff Medarion's feet.

"Spotting infatuation, apparently," replied Pelcyr. "Medarion thinks Ironcore and Beln have some kind of thing going."

"They did go off together when we met her at the inn," pointed out Ilsa.

"He's impressed by her!" argued Pelcyr, "_I'm_ impressed by her."

The huntress shrugged. "I don't know Medarion. I think I agree with your sister on-"

Whatever Ilsa thought was truncated by a earth-shaking roar that careened upward to a shriek. They were on their feet in a blink, weapons and spells at the ready. The shriek was followed by loud and energetic babbling in a language none of them recognized. They saw Ironcore's Troll friend, illuminated by one of the bonfires across the camp, bound towards the source of the voice and there was another yell, this time one of definite joy. The trio exchanged glances and went to investigate.

Ironcore's Troll stood with a female, probably his mate judging from their familiarity, facing three Horde members they didn't recognize. One was an enormous Tauren bull with gray fur leaning on a thick walking stick. The other was a younger female Tauren, gaily patterened with white and chestnut patches, speaking animatedly to the Troll. Between them, hiding with little success from the curious Troll, was a young Blood Elf woman.

"Who's this?" asked Ilsa. "He seems to know them." The siblings shrugged.

"Ironcore is the only Horde member I've ever traded words with," said Medarion. "Come on. They're no threat, just happy to see each other."

Ilsa headed back towards the tent where she had Vedenrith recovering. Medarion wandered off to seek Tialla. Pelcyr remained watching the group. They were happy to see each other. She smiled. She could understand that.

Morning was heralded by a stiff wind from the south, bringing heat and the fleeting smell of swamp. Pelcyr had volunteered to go with a group of Theramore soldiers for another search and rescue effort, Medarion and Tialla were helping to cook breakfast and Ilsa was sharing her morning meal with Vedenrith, trying to keep her pity to herself as he struggled to eat one-handed.

"You know," he said, carefully balancing a bowl of porridge on his knees, "if I were a Troll, this would not be a problem." Ilsa wasn't sure whether she should laugh or nod politely or ignore the comment entirely. He moved awkwardly but never complained. That he could joke darkly about his situation was both heartening and disconcerting.

However, Ilsa was saved from finding the appropriate comment when a shadow passed over them. They both looked up. The first shadow belonged to a Windrider's wyvern, soaring toward the point where the Flight Master had stabled his mounts. The second shadow that passed over was a regal, white-headed gryphon, following the wyvern.

Ilsa caught a glimpse of each rider and her jaw dropped, then she grinned. "They _are_ alive!" she shouted and sprang to her feet. "I'm sorry Vedenrith, I have to go greet a friend." The Death Knight waved his spoon idly.

"Of course!" Ilsa took a couple of running steps after them, then watched the fliers circle in confusion, calling. The Flight Master scurried out into the stretch of neutral ground between the Horde and Alliance sides of the camp, put his fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply. Both mounts turned towards him and glided down.

They had been flying low enough that anyone who cared to look up could identify them. As such, when Ironcore and Beln dismounted, there was a flurry of whooping and yelling and running. Ilsa caught a side-long glimpse of the Troll Shaman galloping towards the black-furred Druid before she caught up with Pelcyr and Medarion, who pounced on Beln.

"You're alive!" cheered Pelcyr, hanging around his neck, feet not touching the ground. Medarion opted to clap him on the back and grin. Ilsa gave the Draenei a respectful embrace and helped him peel Pelcyr off, laughing.

"Vedenrith was right, thank Elune, thank you!" said the Preistess, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. She bounced joyfully on the balls of her feet.

"And you- you're alive! All of you! Ahahaha!" Beln swept all three of them into a crushing hug, vehemently thanking every deity and idol he could think of and a few Ilsa thought he probably made up.

"My heavens," she said when she and Medarion had managed to squirm free of his enthusiastic grip, "what _happened_ to you? Look at your clothes!" He and Pelcyr still had an arm around each other, giggling. The Draenei looked down at himself, his salt-crusted trousers and boots, ragged shirt and stolen armour and grinned.

"I had a little adventure," he said slyly.

"You'll have to tell us everything," Pelcyr cried. "Don't leave anything out. Right now."

"Right now?!"

"No, not right now. Pelcyr, he must be starving. Come, have some food. Then tell us everything," said Medarion.

"Yes!" said Beln, then looked over at where Ironcore was nearly hidden in the massive arms of a grizzled bull Tauren who could only be her brother. "We'll have to tell it together," he said. "And there's a couple people I need to meet." He didn't bother extricating himself from Pelcyr as he approached the Druid and her friends. Samoj and his mate capered around her, cheering and clapping their hands while she hugged her family. The younger Tauren woman was clearly crying, talking non-stop as Ironcore fondly brushed her chestnut mane away from her face.

"We came here to pay our last respects," her niece sniffled, clutching Ironcore's waist, "I thought you were gone! I thought I'd n-never see you ag-gain!" wailed the girl in Taurahe.

"Sh, Akeeswa, the Earthmother sees fit to spare me. I am well and whole and you- you are taller!"

"She didn't shed a tear until now," grunted the bull with a smile. "She insisted you were alive all the way here." Ironcore patted her brother's cheek and pressed her forehead to his.

"And you believed her, of course, right Anzu?"

He snorted. "Of course! I told her I'd only believe you were dead if I saw a body."

The Druid guffawed. "You're awful. The poor girls… Where's Marzaria?" She pulled back, switching to Orcish, one hand on each of her kin and looked around.

"Here I am," said a tiny voice and Ironcore bent and scooped up the slender Blood Elf around the waist, lifting her into the air. "I really wish you wouldn't do that," she squeaked but hugged the Tauren none-the-less.

"I tell heem," said Samoj, wagging a finger at Anzu, "I tell heem Alliance keeds show me you are not dead."

"Pelcyr and Medarion?"

"Night Elf an' huntress," corrected the Troll. "They make pictures, do silly dances, showing me they think you alive an' you save blue lover-boy too. An' look- you do!" Samoj gestured to Beln, grinning hugely around his tusks.

"Lover-boy?" said Anzu with amusement, noticing Beln for the first time and fixing his gaze on the Draenei. Beln froze and involuntarily clutched Pelcyr's hand. The massive breadth of the bull's shoulders was double Ironcore's own and he stood stooped, peering down from a height Beln could never hope to achieve. Ironcore was slight and willowy and everything feminine in comparison.

"I am Beln," he said carefully in accented Orcish and approached. Pelcyr followed with trepidation. "We are… friends."

"I am Longshadows," said the bull graciously and spoke more words too quickly for Beln to follow.

"He says any friend of his sister's is a friend of his," Ironcore translated. "This is Akeeswa, my niece. She has yet to receive a Brave name from our tribe."

"Hello!" said the young Tauren woman and shook his hand without hesitation.

"And this is Marzaria," she said evenly, gesturing to the Blood Elf. They both paused, measuring each other with minds full of ancient enmity and war. Finally, Beln nodded graciously and the elf returned the motion, green eyes wary.

"Who are you?" said Akeeswa curiously, peering around Beln at Pelcyr.

"This is Pelcyr," said Ironcore, "it's her fault this entire mess exists."

"What mess?" said Anzu.

"What did you call her?" said Beln.

"Oh dear. This will take awhile."

The sun rose to its zenith and curious soldiers from both factions patrolled slowly past the group settled in a circle on neutral ground. Samoj and Jashi sat with arms around each other, sniffling and touching each other's hair in open grief as Ironcore recounted how she came to be in the mountains. Medarion paled and turned to his sister when the Tauren described how she found the priestess. As she went on, switching back and forth between Common and Orcish, Ilsa rose from her seat beside the Death Knight to bring her a cup of water. Ironcore nodded her thanks.

Ironcore spoke of the letter Beln had sent her, to the surprise of everyone- Samoj had not been able to read it, Ilsa and the Night Elf siblings had not known of its existence. She could not find words staggering enough to describe the tidal wave and instead merely waved her hand at the new buildings rising from the destruction, eyes wide enough to show white.

Beln stepped up to tell of their journey on the ocean and landfall in Tanaris, Ironcore translating for her comrades. Pelcyr's jaw dropped as she listened to Beln breathlessly describe how they battled their way across the desert.

"And here we are!" he finished, spreading his hands and grinning broadly. "Alive!"

Ironcore and Beln had questions of their own and silence fell among the group as Vedenrith rasped out his own tale, of spying the pair underwater and bringing the news to Pelcyr and Medarion. It was late afternoon by the time everyone began to go their separate ways. Ironcore and Beln stood together still, quietly unwilling to be parted just yet.

Ilsa approached them. "So, Pelcyr and Medarion have this bet…"

"Concerning?" said the Druid warily.

"The nature of your relationship," replied the huntress. Ironcore and Beln looked at each other. Ilsa needed no other proof than that. "It's none of my business, nevermind."

"Come over here, dear Ilsa, and bring Pelcyr…" said Beln wryly. He nodded to the Tauren and she rejoined her family with a smile.

"So is Samoj blowing smoke or is there something to your fondness for the boy?" said Anzu solemly. Ironcore sighed. Akeeswa and her Blood Elf friend were both watching, wide-eyed.

"We are… not quite lovers yet," she said lamely. Anzu scratched his hip thoughtfully.

"It is a dangerous road you tread, sister," he sighed, "and one that leads to heartbreak."

"I've been over it a thousand times, brother," she replied, grinding her teeth. "But he is worth- worth the risk of losing." Anzu shook his head.

"Not your heartbreak, Kafa, his. His kind are immortal and we are not."

Ironcore chuckled drily. "In this world, Anzu, no one is immortal."

As evening fell and deepened into night, Ironcore volunteered to stand guard near one of the sentry pyres dotting the perimeter of the camp. Though a tenuous peace had been wrought amongst the survivors, there was still a variety of predators to worry about. As she stood staring out into the night, past the edges of the firelight, letting her eyes transform minutely into her lion form to see better in the gloom beyond, she heard quiet steps behind her.

"What do you seek?" she asked without turning around. Vedenrith appeared in the circle of light, dusky armour swallowing the heat and gleam of the sentinel fires.

"Wisdom," he said hollowly.

"Why do you come to me?" she asked and turned to measure him with her eyes. They were probably of similar age and Ironcore gauged that a duel between them would not be easily decided.

"I remember everything I did in service to the Lich King," he said quietly, "before we freed ourselves. But while we served, there were no sides, no Horde or Alliance- only the Scourge. My most trusted brother-in-arms, one person whom I might dare call a friend in that place, was Tauren and he had some wisdom. Simply that."

Ironcore nodded. "Go on."

"I cannot shake the memories of the sins I committed in the name of Arthas. When the Ebon Blade rebelled and his will was lifted, I swore I would atone. But… there is no atoning for what we did." His fingers crept to the bandage on his left shoulder. "I vowed I would never take another life."

"And you did?"

"No, I did not. And I paid for it dearly." He scratched at the wound.

"Was it so dear?" asked Ironcore and placed a hand on his left shoulder. Verdant warmth spiraled around her thick fingers and the itching sensation disappated. Vedenrith's expression did not change.

"Yes. No. It's petty."

"Petty? You're mortal, friend. You had one life and it was stolen from you. You were given a second one that you did not want but bent it back to your will. If I were you, I would be quite attached to that second life and the body that came with it. So be petty."

The Death Knight stiffened. "I murdered _hundreds_ and I gloried in it. I remember them begging but all I could hear was _him_."

"Good."

"Good? Good what?"

"You remember the people you murdered. Good. You're a man, not a monster. Good. You have a conscience. You feel guilty. Why did you come to me? I think I'm saying things you're already thinking."

Vedenrith sagged against a heap of neatly stacked firewood. "I hate myself and I can't change it." Ironcore crouched before him, bringing her eye-to-eye with the Death Knight.

"Ilsa doesn't hate you," she said. Vedenrith's head snapped up. "You know, the red-head with the hyena. When she looks at you… Well, I don't know about humans, but when I was a girl just starting my Druid training, I went to meet Hamuul Runetotem. And I think the way she looks at you is the way I looked at him. She worships you. She sees nothing but a hero." To her astonishment, the man's lower lip quivered and she favoured him with a lop-sided smile. "_She_ sees a man who fought back against something all of us wish we could fight but none of us ever have. She sees a man who changed his destiny. She sees… a guy who called his horse _Blueberry_, for Earthmother's sakes!"

Vedenrith was trying very hard not to cry.

"And," she continued, "though it probably doesn't matter as much, I don't see a monster in you either. My views of the other side have changed somewhat of late and I feel no more animosity for you than I would feel for the Tauren Death Knight you spoke of. What I do see," she continued and stood up, stepping back from him, "is someone, _finally_, that I can spar with."

The Death Knight chuckled weakly, dabbing at his eyes with his thumb. "I think you over-estimate my condition. I can barely stand."

"Whenever you feel up to it," she replied. "I'll be in Stranglethorn."


	11. Love & Peace Or Else

**A/N: From now on I make no promises and thus tell no lies… I don't know when I'll be able to update. :( **** My job is kicking my butt- 6-day weeks, 10-hour days and now I have overnight shifts to work too. I can't wait to go back to school...! Enough whining. This is me skating as close to the brink of an M rating as I dare! ;)**

**CHAPTER 11 – Love & Peace Or Else**

Four days after Ironcore and Beln returned, the Tauren Druid found a familiar face peering at her upside down from the crosspoles of her tent.

"Hello!" said the parrot from the doomed Booty Bay ship. The moment she and Beln had approached the Flightmaster in Gadgetzan, the bird had leapt skyward, screaming indignantly at its natural predators. They had been disheartened by its apparent disappearance but could not spare the time to search for it. Ironcore was delighted to see the parrot alive and whole again.

"Hello," she said and offered the bird her wrist to perch on. It flapped its wings excitedly and then settled down to preen its tail and nibble Ironcore's wristguard. "I don't know what we're going to do with you. Perhaps there's someone in Booty Bay who can care for you."

She brought the bird to meet her brother and niece, covering it protectively with both hands when Samoj joined them and evinced interest of a decidedly culinary nature.

"No! You can't _eat_ her! She survived this whole ordeal just like we did! She deserves a good life and a place of honour."

"I suppose I could…" said the little Blood Elf Marzaria slowly and held out her delicate hand for the parrot to climb on. "She's very pretty." The bird took to her easily, fascinated by the hoops of gold in Marzaria's ears. "But I think there's a- ouch! Naughty bird!- think there's one crewman who lived from the _Maiden's Fancy_. He should be the one to take her."

"You're joking," said Ironcore, amazed. "That she lived is miraculous enough but at least she can _fly_!"

Marzaria was right. One of the crew had survived. At the sight of the bird, he burst into tears.

"Treasure! You plucky beast! I thought for sure you were lost to us!" The parrot pounced on him with a vigour and excitement she had never shown anyone else and wailed joyfully. "I thought I'd ne'er touch the sea again," said the dwarf all in a rush, "But this is a sign! I'll commission a new vessel an' I'll be namin' her _Treasure's Luck_!" At the word 'commission', several goblins appeared out of seemingly nowhere. A deal was soon struck.

Days passed thusly. The most incredible things were recovered from the wreckage and each time there was a happy reunion, anyone in earshot couldn't help but find their spirit bolstered, no matter which faction they were allied with. It was a surreal and rather corrupting experience for many.

Despite the truce, Ironcore and Beln hardly saw each other. Beln was recruited by the goblin builders into construction. Ironcore was called upon as both a healer and a translator. Pelcyr worked alongside the Druid and would pass messages between the two, despite being rather peevish that she had lost the bet with her brother.

Finally, a weary messenger on a panting frostwolf barded in Horde red arrived with a summons for Ironcore.

"I can do no more good here than I have," she said heavily, eyes flicking over the lines. "I am to continue on to Grom'gol via the zeppelin and assume my duties as a teacher of alchemy there."

It was one of the rare occasions when Beln had managed to join her. His shoulders sagged.

"I wish you luck. I will see you," he said earnestly, "I promise." Ironcore smiled and touched his cheek. Pelcyr, folding linen scraps for bandages, nudged her brother in the ribs at the gesture.

"What?" murmured Medarion, engrossed in a tome of magic he had borrowed from a fierce-eyed gnomish mage.

"Don't you think it's cute?"

"Them?"

"Yeah. They're so gentle."

"It's weird," he said, peeking one eye over the edge of his book. Ironcore was listening to Beln with the fingers of her right hand curled against her chest, the left holding a forgotten stem of Peacebloom. She was focused entirely on the Draenei as he explained some intricacy of sword-play. "Here, now, it doesn't look so odd but what about out in the world? There will be members of their own races who will brand them traitors, I'm sure."

Pelcyr snorted. "Those people are wrong."

-----------------------------------------------------------

Beln saw Ironcore off early the next morning, more than a little awkward in the presence of her family and Samoj. The Troll was grinning so hard Beln thought he might start drooling.

"Write to me," she said, taking both of his hands in hers. "Give your letters to a goblin courier and they will get to Grom'gol."

He wanted very badly to lean in and kiss her good-bye but there were too many eyes on them and he was too conscious of them. _Someday I will not care who is watching_, he thought vehemently. Instead they embraced.

"Good-bye for now, Kafa," he whispered to her.

"I will see you again. Good-bye Beln."

He bit back a sigh as she rode off and turned to walk the gauntlet of curious on-lookers back to the house he was helping rebuild.

Samoj fell into step beside him, peering at him every few seconds until Beln met his gaze and held it. "What?" he said in Orcish. Ironcore had only taught him pieces of the language, things she thought he might need to know. He knew the names of some animals, weapons, elements, a variety of creative swears and insults, how to ask for mercy and how to show it. He also knew how to tell someone that events were none of their business and he suspected that this was mainly intended to be used on Samoj.

"She give you her name," the Shaman said solemly, then patted Beln on the back and loped off, apparently satisfied.

No one on Beln's house-building crew gave him any grief about his fondness for the Druid. They had all spent the better part of a week watching him swing a hammer and if they didn't respect his choice in companions, they did at least respect the force and accuracy with which he could strike.

That night, Ilsa found him at the edge of the camp, staring off across the Barrens prairie.

"Heard you're going to Stranglethorn Vale," she said and reached down to pull up a stem of grass and place it between her teeth.

"I will be," he said. "I have something I think I should do first."

"All right. When you're ready to go, look up Vedenrith and I. He wants to practice his one-handed swordsmanship somewhere vaguely dangerous- for him- and I want to learn more about tracking."

"Where will you be?"

"Booty Bay, probably. If it gets too rough, we can fly between Stranglethorn and Duskwood in less than a day and camp." Ilsa raised an eyebrow in the direction of her friend. He was uncharacteristically quiet and thoughtful. "What about you? Where are you going?"

"The Exodar," Beln replied and the corners of his mouth tightened, "I want to visit my family."

"You never talk about your family. Who you got there?" she asked curiously. Beln shook his head.

"They're… they were all lost in the crash."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

He nodded. "I have been away for too long. I need to go home."

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Stranglethorn was as Ironcore remembered it from her youth: hot, wet, full of things that wanted you dead and teeming with adventurers. She had barely unloaded her cargo from the zeppelin and was going over a list of supplies she would have to buy in Booty Bay- a reasonable excuse to visit, she thought- when someone ran up to her.

"You the new trainer?"

Ironcore turned. The speaker was an Orc, battle-scarred and harried. "Yes, I am she."

"Great. Orders are to set up there-" he pointed to an empty tent on the edge of the walled outpost, "-and start work immediately."

The rest of the day passed with the Orc, named Jhorl, hollering orders to a duo of compliant peons as they helped Ironcore haul trunks of fragile glassware to her new home/workshop. A hide strung from the tent poles separated her sleeping mat from the benches and racks of her trade. She had just enough privacy to dress.

"Got some students for you," said Jhorl, a crate on one shoulder and Ironcore's backpack in the other hand. "Lots of 'em. Glad you're here. I can't tell the difference between Liferoot and Plaguebloom."

Ironcore grimaced. "Show them in," she said.

There was a steady trickle of questions all day, but Ironcore could tease out the ones who were merely curious or looking for ingredients from the ones who sincerely wanted to learn the skills she offered. One of these stood before her now, wide-eyed and holding a vial of unidentifiable liquid in shaking fingers.

"I'm doing it wrong," the Forsaken said with finality. By the sleek paired daggers in his belt she guessed him a Rogue.

"What is it supposed to be?" she asked.

"A life potion." He dropped his chin in embarrassment, tangled greenish hair flopping over his yellow eyes. Ironcore suppressed the urge to gasp.

"Have you been drinking it like that?" she asked.

"O-only once," he admitted. She patted a stool at one of the benches. A clutter of struts, bars, clamps, o-rings and tubing lay before her.

"Out of curiosity, what did it do?"

"Well… uh…"

"I gave myself lockjaw once. With a mana potion."

He coughed a laugh. "It gave me a beard and eyebrows like a bloody Night Elf. They were out to here!" He gestured.

"I'd say you're doing it wrong," she said sagely, the corner of her lips twitching upwards. He nodded. "What's your name?"

"Marley," he replied and stretched out a bony, taloned hand, "Marley Magrath." Ironcore shook it warmly.

"I am Ironcore. All right Marley. You want to be an alchemist?"

He nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, I do."

"We'll start from the very beginning. You're going to learn how to assemble this-" she pointed to the chaos of metal and rubber parts piled on the work bench, "-into a basic distillation system."

"I have no idea-"

"We'll do it together. Then I'm going to take it apart and you're going to do it by yourself."

Marley gulped. "Okay."

An hour later, the Forsaken man was hunkered down on a stool, carefully eying the steam level in an evaporation chamber as bright crimson ichor dripped into a receiving flask. Ironcore continued unpacking, keeping an eye on his progress. His was a problem she had seen with several young alchemists: they had the materials and the knowledge for combining them but no idea how the process actually worked. Setting up the equipment piece by piece and explaining _why_ each part was necessary and what it did for the finished product not only rememdied that ignorance but also lead to them experimenting on their own and hopefully discovering something new and interesting rather than blowing up her lab. Hrama, her old student, had been legendary for his explosive failures. The only time she ever saw the young bull angry was when Samoj joked that he should have been born a Gnome.

"Excuse me… is this your laboratory?" Ah, Ironcore knew that tone of voice. It could only come from a Blood Elf who thought that tangle-free hair and a flawless complexion entitled one to the immediate respect of others.

"Yes," she replied warmly, turning to greet the newcomer. _Paladin_, she guessed. "I am Ironcore. Do you seek training as an Alchemist?"

"I _am_ an Alchemist," said the woman, raising her chin a touch. "I seek counsel to better my mastery of the arts- oh _seriously_ Marley, do you go _everywhere_ I do?" The Forsaken looked up from his bench, blinking.

"I was here first," he said, "And yes, I probably do considering we practice the same arts." He put his back to her, effectively finishing the conversation. Ironcore looked from one to the other.

"I take it you've met."

The Blood Elf rolled her eyes. "Met. My goodness, ever since I came to this sweltering hell, he's been everywhere I go."

"May I have your name?"

"I am Tologrin Stormshatter," said the Paladin and ran long fingers through a lock of honey-coloured hair. "My father is-"

"Not here," said Ironcore firmly. For the first time, Tologrin seemed to mark the difference in their stature, both physical and metaphysical. Her shoulders sank a little and her eyes darted away from Ironcore's gaze.

"My apologies, Druid," she said.

"Will you have trouble working on a bench opposite Marley?"

"No," she said and meant yes. Ironcore sighed inwardly. _Blood Elves_. There were few that she could exchange more than pleasantries with; it gnawed at one, knowing that most of an entire race regarded your own people as little more than barbaric animals. Her niece's friend Marzaria was one of those she enjoyed but it hadn't started out that way. Not until Marz had discovered a passion for digging minerals out of the ground and getting appallingly dirty in the process, had she stopped looking down her nose at Akeeswa's coarse braids and thick-stitched leather clothing. Ironcore thought her niece must have the patience of a saint.

"Excellent. I will have you complete the same task Marley has done: assemble a simple distillation system." Tologrin stared at the heap on the table.

"Out of that?" she inquired, green eyes widening. Ironcore nodded.

"Yes, out of that," she replied.

"I did it," said Marley not bothering to turn around. Tologrin pinched her lips into a thin line and shrugged her shoulders, making her shimmering cloak toss dazzles of colour around the tent.

"I will demonstrate and then you will replicate it."

"No need," said the Paladin, "I can-"

"No. This equipment is expensive and hard to come by so far from civilization," said Ironcore, "and if you break it, you will spend the next several months paying me back. So you will watch me."

The rest of the evening was spent alternately refereeing her new students and laying the groundwork for good alchemical procedure. It was exhausting. Well after sunset, she kicked them both out, listening to them bicker about who's minor defense potion had turned out a more preferable shade of aubergine. She sighed.

"Shoulda warned you," said Jhorl, appearing out of the dark with enough stealth to give Ironcore a start. She grimaced, baring the short, conical tusks that were more prominent in Tauren bulls.

"Yes, you should have," she agreed. "How long have they been here?"

"Three months. I was hoping one of them would get eaten by now."

Ironcore chuckled. "Sadly, they're both pretty gifted considering they've had almost no basic equipment training. Perhaps if I could set up two tents…"

"Not gonna fly," said Jhorl, shaking his head. "But if you need one of 'em beaten, just ask."

"If anyone's beating them, it's going to be me. Ugh, that was just one day!"

"C'mon, there's a bunch of us heading over to Booty Bay. You need a drink," said Jhorl wisely.

"At the very least," Ironcore agreed.

--------------------------------------------------

Although she had been secretly hoping the trip to Booty Bay would lead to a pleasant accidental run-in with Beln, it did not. She was disappointed, but his first letter had come from the Exodar, via a number of stops between and she was glad he felt comfortable going home for the first time in years. She wanted him to stay there as long as he needed to.

Ironcore had a good time with her new companions nevertheless, swapping tales of adventure and demonstrating outlandish talents of the sort people only show off in bars.

The next morning, she left a note pinned to the tent and headed down to the sea to bathe. For many, bathing required privacy. For a Druid, it simply required water. She shape-shifted effortlessly, diving beneath the gentle breakers. There was a reef below her, alive with fish of stunning colours and the bald, piercing white of coral skeletons. It was also crawling with Murlocs. She turned away, surfaced and spent a moment in her true form combing tangles out of her hair before switching back and swimming to the beach.

"I- I don't understand this," blurted Tologrin as Ironcore walked up to her tent. She unpinned the note and looked down at the young woman.

"What is it?"

"This- this part of the Fire Oil recipe."

"Okay, let's look at it."

Weeks passed in this fashion, with Tologrin or Marley- or both- approaching each day with questions. Others came and went but the quarrelsome two became her regular students. They were both talented, both eager to learn in their own fashion and both desperate to show up the other in their work. As such, they progressed at a blistering pace, jealously matching each other's accomplishments. Ironcore couldn't discover the source of their antagonistic relationship by guile, so one day, two months after her arrival in Grom'gol, she simply asked.

"What is your problem with Marley?" she sighed, leaning on one fist as Tologrin carefully clamped rubber tubing in place.

"I don't like him," replied the Paladin, wrinkling her nose, "he's everywhere I go. He stole Liferoot from right out from under me- he said I hadn't picked it so it must be fair game- well I was fighting off a tiger! And he's so… not…" She wriggled her shoulders in distaste.

"Not living?"

"Yes! I know the Forsaken are our allies, but… I just can't get over the undead-ness. At least he has a lower jaw. I saw this girl in Orgrimmar who- ew, nevermind. I don't even want to think about it."

Later the same day, she approached Marley.

"So why the dislike for Tologrin?"

The Forsaken snorted through what remained of his nose. "She's arrogant. She thinks because she's a Paladin and a pretty girl the world should accord her more attention. I don't like arrogance. It gets you killed."

Ironcore couldn't argue with that assessment.

"I can't put up with their snapping and fighting much longer," said Ironcore one night, conversing with Jhorl as he stood by the gate on guard duty. "One or both of them is going to end up on the wrong end of my mace."

"Repeatedly, I hope."

"Harrumph."

"Do what everyone else does with their unruly students- send them out into the jungle so they have to work together. Either they do and they find some kind of respect for each other or they die and we have peace. Or one of them dies and we have peace. Win-win-win."

"How many grunts do you go through in a season?" asked Ironcore wryly. Jhorl shrugged.

"Six or seven."

The next morning, Tologrin and Marley showed up at Ironcore's tent to find it open but empty. A note was waving slightly in the breeze, clamped to a support bar on Marley's bench.

_Gone to Booty Bay to mail some letters. Will return before midday. Practice evaporation with Earthroot in bottom cupboard. DON'T BREAK ANYTHING. – Ironcore_

"Evaporation?" said Tologrin with disappointment. "I hate evaporations!"

"Good," said Marley and sat down to set up his equipment. Tologrin planted one fist on her hip and glared daggers at the Undead.

"I have better things to do," she announced.

"Really? Such as?"

"Such as collecting herbs, maybe? Without plants we have no ingredients."

"Without knowledge of how to use them, you might as well eat them."

Tologrin hissed and looked around the tent. Marley continued to fine-tune his apparatus, not entirely ignoring the Blood Elf but more engrossed in his work. He stepped around her to reach the cupboard Ironcore had mentioned and carefully cut and weighed a portion of the stored Earthroot. As he lit the tiny burner beneath the evaporating plate, he saw Tologrin stretching to peer around the curtain that separated the tent. Something apparently caught her eye because she was cautiously pushing it aside.

"Tologrin, that's Ironcore's personal stuff. You're not supposed to go back there." The Paladin spared him a withering glance.

"I'm just curious. Aren't you?"

"Not really. I have respect for other people's privacy."

"I respect her. Oh look at this!" Marley looked despite himself and found Tologrin holding a trinket of some kind, etched with jagged patterns. "Neat. I wonder what it does."

"It's a Shaman's totem," said Marley and briefly wondered why a Druid would have a minirature totem in her belongings.

"Maybe she's friends with a Shaman," said Tologrin and ventured further into Ironcore's bedroom.

"Tologrin…" pleaded Marley. He heard her set down the totem and rummage around a little and then the click of hard metal against metal.

"Crap, it's locked. Marley, you're good at lockpicking. Come here and open this trunk."

"If it's locked it means she doesn't want anyone else opening it."

"So? I won't say anything if you won't. Come help me. If you don't, I'm going to blast it off."

"Then she'll know you've been in there for sure."

"I'll tell her it was you because your skill at lock-picking wasn't good enough."

"Nice try. Leave it alone."

There was a sizzle and a crunch and Marley leapt to his feet, angry. "Tologrin! What is wrong with you? Would you like it if someone went through your stuff?"

"Of course not," came the answer and then an in-drawn breath. "You have to see this." Against his better judgement, Marley edged around the curtain. Tologrin knelt on Ironcore's sleeping mat, a heavy, steel-braced trunk open before her. She had removed several items already and set them in a neat pile beside her but her hands hovered indecisively over the carefully folded tabard she had unearthed. Marley had seen it only a few times before, in Undercity and Orgrimmar, and had asked the tabard vendor what it meant since the demure heraldry puzzled him.

"Tabard of the Explorer," he said, impressed. "Now put it _back_!"

Tologrin carefully began replacing the things she'd taken out of the trunk. "You're going to tell her, aren't you?"

"Why bother? You blasted the lock off. It's pretty obvious I can't do that."

"Oh damn!" she muttered, glaring at the melted lump of metal. "I know a blacksmith! I bet he can fix it." She grabbed the lock, smoothed out the sleeping mat and pulled the curtain neatly closed. "If she gets back before me, just tell her you don't know how it happened."

Marley sighed as the Paladin skittered out of the tent. "Give me ten gold pieces and I'll consider it." Tologrin rolled her eyes and left without another word. Marley shrugged and happily returned to his workbench.

-----------------------------------------------

Ironcore re-read the letter before sealing the envelope and handing it over to the goblin postmaster. After more than twenty years, there was no guarantee Khemat Thunderhorn would feel any obligation to her old training partner but it was Ironcore's only connexion to the Cenarion Circle. The two Tauren women had entered their Druid training bare months apart and while Ironcore had excelled at wielding the more damaging aspects of nature, Khemat found her calling in restoration. They had complimented each other well in training sessions and later on the battlefield, before Khemat had sworn allegiance to the Circle.

The second letter she marked and handed over to the goblin postmaster was bound for Desolace. Pelcyr had asked for correspondence. Ironcore wasn't entirely sure what she should write to the priestess, so she described a few anecdotes about the jungle and weather.

Lastly, she gave the postmaster an envelope bound for the Exodar.

_Dear Beln,_

_I am happy to hear that you are enjoying your time amongst your people. After so many months on the road, isn't it nice to be back where everyone has horns and a tail? _

_My students are going to turn my hair gray, I swear. Individually, they're both decent, gifted people. Together? They quarrel incessantly, they blame each other for their own mistakes, they curry favour, and generally act like children. A teacher I am but not a counselor. I'm afraid I will resort to mild violence against them if only to make myself feel better._

_Good luck with your riding training! I miss you. _

_-Ironcore_

At first, Beln thought the letter was disappointingly short and abrupt. Then he remembered how many hands it must have had to pass through to reach his. No, short and mundane was for the best. She did say she missed him. With a rush of feeling, he realized that he missed her too. He had stopped by his old trainer the day before and when the man sent him off into the wilderness on a half dozen tasks, Beln couldn't help but fantasize about having Ironcore at his side to help him.

"Heading for the mainland too, are you?"

Beln looked down from his saddle to find himself sharing the dock with a young Shaman. "Yes," he replied and realized she was gawking at the Elekk he was riding. He cocked his head. "Is this the first time you've left the island?"

She nodded and swallowed. "I'm ready for anything," she proclaimed fiercely, though her body language said the opposite. Beln smiled. Her robes were frayed and her boots well-worn.

"I know just how you feel," he said. Distantly, he noted the graceful silhouette of the ship on the horizon, cutting swiftly through the water towards the dock. "Where are you going?"

"I- uh, Darkshore. Just there. I'm supposed to talk to one of the Night Elf Sentinels. Where are you going?"

"Stranglethorn Vale," he said and saw the look of mixed admiration and impatience he'd doubtlessly given someone the day he stood waiting for the ship to take him away from his people.

"I heard some stories about that place," said the Shaman as the ship slid deftly up to the dock. Beln reined his Elekk aside as dockhands trotted up to move cargo off the ship. "I heard there's a city there that's run by goblins and they welcome Alliance and Horde equally."

"Like Ratchet," said Beln.

"Except it didn't get destroyed."

"Ratchet was destroyed _briefly_," said Beln, "you can't keep a good goblin down. They were already rebuilding it two days after it happened. By the time they recruited me, they'd already resurrected a few buildings. I don't remember exactly what, but I know the ones I worked on weren't the first to rise."

"You were there?" said the Shaman incredulously.

"I was there when it happened," replied Beln.

"When the wave came? Are you serious? What happened? How did you survive? Is it true that Lady Proudmoore brought the Theramore guards there and-"

"It's a long ride to Darkshore," said Beln, "I'll tell you the whole thing on the way there."

It was an even longer ride to Stormwind from Auberdine and a lonely one. The young Shaman had gasped and laughed and gaped at all the appropriate points in Beln's tale and it warmed him to be the one being impressive rather than being impressed.

It was raining in Stormwind and remained gloomy all the way through Elwynn Forest. The sky cleared up as his Elekk splashed across the river and entered Duskwood though the surrounding gloom of the morose countryside wasn't much better than rain. Beln paused on the road for a moment to shake water off his mail and tried vainly to wring out his thick braid.

Evening was falling as Beln hesitated on the border to Stranglethorn. The glow of accomplishment left behind from his journey with the Shaman had vanished. That was more than a week in the past and here he was, night settling in around him, full of strange noises in a strange place known for it's brutality, all alone.

He barely even knew how to ride.

With a deep breath, Beln nudged the Elekk forward into the deepening night and the maw of Stranglethorn.

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A week had passed since Ironcore returned from Booty Bay to find her personal belongings rummaged and her students to blame. Well, _student_, thought Marley miserably but he still cringed every time she laid eyes on him. After all, he could have tried harder to keep Tologrin out of that trunk. Along with a lecture delivered loud enough that the tribes of cannibal trolls scattered throughout the jungle probably knew their names, Ironcore had imposed a week of punishment on the two. Thankfully, it did not involve her mace, a truth which was met with disappointment by Grom'gol's other inhabitants. It did entail Marley spending most of his waking life with Tologrin and the vast array of deadly creatures the jungle offered, not the least of which were the afore-mentioned trolls.

"You want us to do what?" said Tologrin, green eyes open so wide they were actually protruding. "But I said I was sorry! I really am!" the Blood Elf wailed. The Druid was unmoved.

"I believe you," said Ironcore and flicked one ear in annoyance, "this isn't about punishment. This is about herbs and alchemy."

"But that stuff grows in, like-" offered Marley until she looked at him and then he found himself unable to complete his argument. "Okay." Tologrin shot him a glare but didn't say anything out loud.

"You're going to go out together, come back together and when you do, you'll have twenty- _twenty_- perfect specimens of Purple Lotus with you. If one of you dies, I want the absolute truth about it from the one remaining. If you both die, I better find your bodies no more than six feet apart and it better look like you didn't kill each other. I am sick and tired of you two bickering and fighting and griping about each other. Learn to work together or so help me, I will send you to look for Peacebloom _in_ _Stormwind_!"

The Rogue and Paladin slunk out of Ironcore's tent without a word of protest. Once out of ear shot, Marley rounded on Tologrin.

"If you had never-"

"I know! I know! Shut up will you? Let's just do this and get it over with."

Marley blinked, watched Tologrin's slumped shoulders as she plodded across the beaten ground toward the gates of Grom'gol. She'd been tight-lipped and flint-eyed all week but he thought it was from getting caught. Maybe she actually felt bad? The Forsaken shook himself and followed her, fingers rising to rest on the twin hilts in his belt.

Ironcore watched her students scurry away. Jhorl appeared by her elbow, grinning.

"I took your advice," she said, brow furrowed in worry. "I hope they can at least forge a working relationship. Maybe I should have sent them after something less dangerous."

"Does Peacebloom even grow in Stormwind?" asked the guard wryly. Ironcore shook her head.

"I don't know. Maybe I should follow them."

Jhorl patted her on the shoulder. "They'll be fine as long as they watch out for each other."

Ironcore sighed. "What if they don't?"

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The tavern was crowded, smoky and hot. Although all the windows and doors were propped wide open to admit the late afternoon breeze, the lanterns and candles lighting the building balanced out any good the wind was doing. Blen blinked rapidly as the smoke stung his eyes and looked around. The man he had been sent to see was leaning back in his chair at a table in the corner of the room, watching the other patrons. Beln dodged around a busy goblin waitress, side-stepped a Tauren's tail and slid into the seat opposite the man.

"Who's this now?" said the old man. He was human, his beard and remaining fringe of hair gray with age.

"I'm Beln," he said and offered his hand. The old man took it with a surprisingly steady grip and shook it readily. "I was seeking someone who could train a warrior and your name came up."

The man snorted. "Did they mention I'm retired?"

"Uh," said Beln, "no."

The man looked him over, then returned his gaze to the rest of the room. "You like it here?" he asked. Beln took a cursory look around.

"Seems okay. A bit scary."

"Scary."

"Maybe not to you but look at that fellow-" Beln pointed to a Forsaken man with glowing pauldrons who was idlly feeding his Felstalker minion pieces of liver, "- could do me in without getting up. Or her," he said and gestured to a Troll woman whose belt was probably worth more gold than everything Beln owned. "It's a bit scary."

The old man chuckled. "I suppose it is. I'm Harlan Meyer, retired Paladin. Retired, mind you. Remember that. I'm too old to be running around in plate mail. So what's your story?"

Beln sat back and decided to start from the very beginning.

Hours later, he knew the name of Harlan's deceased and much-beloved wife, the names and birthdays of his three children, and the names, ages and favourite animals of his six grand children. He knew the old man had grown up in Lordaeron, fled with his young family and fought back against the Scourge until age and old wounds had slowed him down. Harlan told him what the Exodar had looked like as it fell out of the sky from an Azerothian perspective and his honest perceptions of the Draenei, which included no demonic comparisons, to Beln's releif.

"So what makes you want to fight?"

Beln waved a hand around the tavern. "This is how it should be. Happiness, relaxation, good food, instead of worry and fear and loss."

Harlan nodded. "Good, I like that. Fine. I'll teach you as much as I can but it won't be everything. You got that? When I say there's no more, there's no more. You go on and find yourself someone else."

"I can do that," said Beln.

"All right. I should give you some task... hmm… let's see… ah! This will ingratiate you to the goblins too, which is always helpful."

Beln was nodding enthusiastically. It wasn't _too_ late yet. The was still a couple hours before sunset.

"Go out and kill a good bunch of those raptors. They're a bloody nuisance and breed like rabbits out here. You know how to skin?" Beln shook his head. Harlan harrumphed. "Ah well. There's piles of scavengers out there. No waste. Bring me teeth, claws and horns. Goblins want the horns for something." He waved a hand. "Who knows."

"Any particular location?"

"Sure. There's a big nest of them north of here, near the Horde outpost, Grom'gol."

Beln perked up. "I can do that."

He left the Elekk behind and headed into the jungle afoot. It would be faster to ride but his tracking skills were rudimentary at best and the noise of the big tusked beast's passing would be sure to alert predators near and far to his presence. So Beln stalked through the waning light, humidity beading his skin with moisture, sword unsheathed in one hand, shield held ready in the other.

It was almost sunset by the time the trees gave way to an abrupt clearing and he paused at the crest of a hill, hidden behind the massive frond of an ancient fern. Below him on the strand, butting up into the jungle, was Grom'gol. He stared hard at the thick log wall and scarlet-peaked guard towers and couldn't think _enemy_.

Suddenly he caught a snatch of conversation and identified a couple of words in Orcish. He squinted and stole closer, moving with caution from fern to fern. There were sentry fires at the entrance there, each one manned by an Orc grunt. Standing beside one of the grunts was a Tauren woman. They appeared to be carrying on a conversation. Beln's heart pounded and his breath caught in his throat.

It was just a glimpse, but Beln was sure the woman was Ironcore. He crept nearer, found the edge of the embankment and stopped, close now as he dared to be. But it _was_ her! She was there, just at the entrance, talking to one of the guards, standing with one hoof cocked, at ease. How easy would it be to just call out to her? But that would give him away for Alliance… or would it?

He understood the significance of the gesture when Ironcore had told him her given name. But 'Kafa' was the same any any language; 'Ironcore' was not. Beln took a deep breath.

"I know, the raptors are getting cagier every time I pass them. We should probably get some upstart to go out an' cull them a bit for everyone's safety," said Jhorl

Ironcore nodded in agreement. "They breed like-"

"_Kafa!!_"

Ironcore turned around slowly, incredulity and menace projecting from the entire motion. Beln went cold all over, eyes widening. There was actual electricity crackling across her shoulders and down her arms. He had no idea she would react this way-

And then there was no Tauren, just an immense lion with fangs as long as his forearm and broad, sloping horns, charging towards him up the slope, through the undergrowth.

"Ironcore!" he managed before she tackled him. She skidded to a halt, changing form again as she did so. They stared at each other.

"Beln?"

"Yes, it is!"

Then she burst into laughter and swept him up in a crushing embrace. "How did you- are you-? What are you doing-?" She released him and stepped back to look him over. "You've grown."

"I'm back," he laughed and stepped forward to embrace her again. She was right- he had grown. He found himself _almost_ face to face now and before he realized it, he had skimmed his lips over her jaw.

"Oh," he said breathlessly, "I am sorry. Let me do that right." And he kissed her full on the mouth. It was not like he had imagined in that it didn't feel like he was kissing an animal. Her lips were full and a little bit chapped, but she tasted like she smelled- like peacebloom and goldthorn and sungrass- and moreover, she was kissing him back. They parted for a moment and he caught a hint of wildness in her dark eyes.

"Come," she said and her voice was deeper, full of slow, smouldering promise. She put her arm around his waist, like she had the first time they met, and pulled him along with her.

"Where're we going?" it occurred to him to ask.

"Away from base camp. Into the wild. Somewhere soft." Beln stumbled and she caught him, bringing him against her. They stared at each other for another long moment. Beln was aware now that she was not wearing her armour; she was dressed in a beautiful- but still practical- druid's robe. He leaned up and touched the tip of his nose to hers, breathing hard from the excitement of finding her and the whirlwind plunge into the jungle.

"Is this far enough?" he whispered. Ironcore shook her head.

"Scouts still come this far out." But she moved in to complete the kiss anyway. Beln found his hands gripping her hips, fingers digging in to the ridge of muscle, and realized he had never touched her there. _And so many other places._ They parted and Ironcore took stock of their location, though how she could tell where they were Beln couldn't guess. _Druid stuff._

She pulled him northeast, into the very heart of Stranglethorn. Everything was green and living and coursing with vitality here. Her blood felt like lightning. She halted, relishing the contact when he bumped into her and pulled his hips between her thighs. They kissed again, and again, and she felt him groan.

"Ka," he said breathlessly, "Far enough, it's far enough." She backed against the arched root of the tree behind her- everything around her blazed green with life and power, she could see the tree, it's roots, each leaf, each bird and worm and him, rippling with honesty and desire. She pulled him against her by his belt, fingers unbuckling it with preternatural dexterity. Everything was so vivid and easy. Beln kissed her again and then buried his face in her neck, hand shaking as he unlaced the robe.


	12. Enjoy the Silence

**A/N: Gee thanks, Patch 3.2. Way to THROTTLE my continuity. Let's just say this is all set pre-3.2: you get mounts at lvl 30, Druid's animal forms come in standard colours rather than personalized ones, buying a mount still leaves you penniless (but faster!) and there's no Crusader's Island. Deal? Great.**

**Chapter 12 – Enjoy the Silence  
**

It was near morning and raining. In the pre-dawn murk, the jungle was relatively quiet. The night had been full of shrieks and howls, crashes, thumps and scrabblings, the noises of predator and prey. Tologrin was shivering. It wasn't the proximity of the red-haired Troll axe-thrower, since he was obvlivious to the Paladin crouched in the undergrowth at the moment, but rather the weather. She had been slinking around in the damp all night and none of her slinking had been done at a rate of speed high enough to build up body heat. The constant rain snuck between the rings of her chainmail and soaked through the silk shirt beneath, sticking to her body and making her feel perfectly disgusting.

Much as she would have liked to communicate her utter misery, the Troll was mere feet away and besides, Marley probably didn't care if she were wet or dry. He was slipping through the undergrowth as only a Rogue could towards their prize- the fifth Purple Lotus blossom they had managed to find. At this rate, they would be done with Ironcore's punishing quest in a couple days.

The thought did not brighten Tologrin's morning. She smelled like jungle and her hair had mud in it.

Suddenly the Troll jerked backwards with a hiss of surprise. Tologrin blinked, found Marley's form across the clearing in the brush and looked back in confusion. There was an arrow sticking out of the Troll's chest. He snarled a challenge, one hand wrapped around the shaft and charged something Tologrin couldn't see.

Taking the opportunity, Marley scrambled into the clearing, deftly gathered the lotus blossom and was back in the bushes before Tologrin was fully out of her uncomfortable crouch. He came padding towards her through the misty light, triumph glowing in his yellow eyes. Tologrin tried not to cringe.

"That was lucky," he said and added the lotus to their precious collection. The Paladin nodded.

"Did you see who shot the Troll?" she asked. The Forsaken shook his head.

"Let's go have a look."

Following the Rogue's lead, Tologrin bellied up to a stout tree stump and peered around it.

The clearing was bisected by a set of ruins, an ancient temple in a shambles of worn stone, limned all over with runes she didn't recognize. Most of the walls had fallen to ground level, leaving only a stone footprint quickly retaken by the jungle, but Marley had brought them alongside a section that remained almost waist high, shrouded with vines and flowers but solid stone nevertheless. From their stump, he darted to the wall and pressed his back to it, beckoning to Tologrin.

The temple had once been built on a hillside, with a view downslope of an open space that had held some other building now too derelict to be named. But the clearing remained along with a few boulders that afforded good cover. Someone was in the glade below them firing arrows from behind those ancient stones.

Tologrin watched as the Troll succumbed, uttering one last guttural cry of rage before he collapsed. Neither she nor Marley moved. The jungle quieted once again, save for the constant swish of rain and rolls of lazy thunder far out at sea.

A woman stepped from behind her boulder, confidently striding towards the dead Troll.

"She's human," said Tologrin, nose wrinkling at the revelation. Marley beside her lowered himself deeper into his crouch, looking less and less rational and more and more feral.

"We can take her," he rasped eagerly. "She's alone and clumsy with the bow." Tologrin paused and took stock. The woman was dressed in leather breeches and tunic, an oiled cloak with a hood, a patched knapsack and a stained and scarred baldric supporting a short sword over her shoulder.

"She looks in terrible shape," concluded the Blood Elf. "What's she doing here?"

Marley shrugged. "I don't know. We're still within a day's walk of Grom'gol though. Any Alliance this deep in the jungle must be stupid or spying."

"Or both," said Tologrin, watching the woman cut her arrows from the Troll and inspect their tips. "Doesn't she realize there could be other ones around? She's barely paying attention to her surroundings!"

"She doesn't know what she's doing. She should have been more cautious."

"Idiot," said Tologrin and quietly unsheathed her sword. "No stupid human is getting near our outpost," she said heatedly. Marley nodded.

"Charge her," he said, "I'll come from the right." He vanished around the end of the wall and Tologrin didn't even hear him move. It was eerie. She shifted her grip on the sword, brought her shield around off her back and tightened the buckles on her forearm. The Paladin waited another minute until she was sure Marley was in position, inched forward until her heels were at the very crest of the hill and stood up.

"_For the Horde!_" she shouted, melodious voice a resounding clarion of challenge. She hurled herself down the hill, eyes locked on the surprised human as she stood up from wiping her arrowheads on the grass. She saw the woman reach behind herself to draw the sword as Tologrin raised her own for a crippling blow-

-and something rammed into the Blood Elf's ribs like a hammer, knocking her down and rolling her over onto her back. Tologrin struck anyway, thrusting her shield up automatically. The blade carved thin air but the buckler came up short against a broad, snarling muzzle and Tologrin found herself staring into the eyes of an angry hyena. Neither the beast nor the Paladin waited. Tologrin swung again, causing the hyena to leap aside, snapping as it went. She feinted with her shield and slashed at its legs, but the rotund creature was faster and wilier than it looked. It pounced backward, growling and chuckling in turns. The sound it made raised the little hairs on the back of Tologrin's neck and she pressed her lips in a thin line of concentration.

When Tologrin charged, Marley launched himself from the shrubline. He was about three-quarters of the way to the human when the hyena jumped the Blood Elf. Still in motion, Marley twisted, re-evaluating his prey as he did. Not some ratty mercenary or ill-equipped warrior this, no- she was a hunter and better clothed and armed than he. Nevertheless, Marley's will did not falter. He was Forsaken and he would not stop until his un-life had been decisively terminated.

She met his daggers with her sword, an arrow still gripped between two fingers, pointing dangerously up between them. The huntress snarled something at him, fire in her pale eyes, indignance and annoyance but no fear.

_She should be afraid_, thought Marley to himself grimly. He whirled aside, one arm extended, guiding her sword away from him, the other coiled in to his chest, waiting for an opportunity. He heard Tologrin yell, just as irritated as the human, and the snap of teeth narrowly missing their target.

The human canted her stance parallel to Marley's and succeeded in fending off both of his blows at once. She stepped perpendicular and made the sword sing through a dazzling figure-eight, forcing Marley backwards with her reach. _Someone has taught her well_.

Tologrin saw Marley in retreat from the corner of her eye. He stooped and darted, spinning and jabbing, faster with the light daggers than the huntress could be with both hands on her sword- _why two hands for such a small blade?_ The hyena took a chance and lunged while Tologrin's head was half turned. The Paladin jumped backwards and instead of crushing her wrist, the hyena was caught by the flat of Tologrin's blade, right on the ear. The beast wailed and staggered, shaking it's head.

The huntress shouted something unintelligible, but evidently furious. The arrow she had been holding deftly between her knuckles came whistling at Tologrin, thrown with such force and venom that she instinctively threw her blade up to ward it off. It was not in time. The arrow lodged in the base of her thumb, just for a moment, lacking momentum enough to do real damage.

But it was enough to shock Tologrin into opening her hand and in opening her hand, she dropped her sword. Instantly, she realized what she had done and a swell of humiliation washed through her. Blushing and cursing herself for stupidity, the Paladin heaved her shield up just in time to catch it between the hyena's gaping jaws. They stared at each other in a momentary stalemate.

Marley danced sideways, trying to outflank the huntress. She was preoccupied with her pet's safety. The Undead man flipped one dagger end for end, waiting for a moment to throw, jabbing to keep her sword busy.

Tologrin let herself fall over backwards, flung out her empty arm to grope for her sword, trying with all her strength to hold up the hyena above her as the beast worked its jaws on her shield. Incrediblly the steel-reinforced oak began to buckle and Tologrin desperately shoved the shield and her forearm further back into the animal's mouth in an attempt to gag it.

Marley threw. His aim was true and she couldn't raise her sword quickly enough to fully deflect its path. The knife stuck in her upper arm and her sword trembled. Gritting her teeth, eyes narrowed, she spat something at Marley. He didn't need a translator to get the gist. _Bastard!_

Unfortunately for Tologrin, the crushing strength of a hyena's jaws was at its best between the back molars. The beast curled its black lips up and muscles bunched and strained in its cheeks. The wood splintered. Tologrin's groping hand found the hilt of her sword and desperately, she gave her focus over to pulling her arm out of the shield's straps. She yanked and thrashed but the hyena wouldn't let go now. It had her by the crumpled remnants of her shield, the steel strips meant to strengthen the wood bent so far inwards now they almost touched. Tologrin raised her sword.

The huntress let go of her sword with one hand and Marley surged forward, dagger first. She slapped him hard across the face with her free hand. For a moment he was bewildered. She had back-handed him so hard he had gone down on one knee and his upraised dagger was nowhere near her incoming blade. With desperation, he somersaulted backwards. Her swing missed but she came on and when he regained his stance, she was inches from him. Their closeness startled her. Marley used the opportunity to grab the dagger impaled in her upper arm, twisted and yanked it free.

Tologrin heard the human yell in pain. So, apparently, did someone else.

Ferocious agony gripped Marley. Skeins of boiling black energy seized him and hauled him off his feet, dragging him forward into the trees, disorienting him. He struck out, half-blind, at the first figure he saw, attacking with a grim determination. Through a blur of pain, he saw a lanky white-haired man, eye-sockets aglow with chilly power, and a long deadly blade drawn back for the final blow.

"Death Knight…!" he managed to croak in shock. In vain, he held up both daggers, attempting to block the incoming strike. Incredibly, he did. Marley stumbled backwards, sore and shaken but alive. Had the man pulled his blow at the last moment? The Forsaken dared to glance up and calculate his odds of escaping on foot.

Frost rimed the Death Knight's dark armour, arctic wind dragged at his cloak. He spoke and his voice grated in his throat like glacial ice. The words made no sense to Marley. He back-pedalled furiously, desperate to distance himself from the long sword held unerringly towards him in one gauntletted hand with terrible ease.

Tologrin succeeded in nicking the hyena with her sword and immediately regretted it. The animal yipped and snarled through its teeth, then planted it's feet and gave her arm a ferocious shake. Tologrin cried out, feeling muscles tear and sinews twist. _I have to get it off me!_ She took a chance and slid the sword along her own arm, neatly cutting through the straps of the destroyed buckler. They came apart with a thump, the hyena landing on its rear with the force of the severed leather. Tologrin scrambled back, sword held out straight and took a wild glance around for Marley and the huntress. There she was, running angrily towards Tologrin. Marley was not in sight. The Blood Elf took to her heels. At the edge of the clearing, she bounded up the first tree she saw, elven agility widening the gap between her and her pursuers. The hyena bounced on its front paws, whooping excitedly, teeth bared. The human stopped just beyond Tologrin's throwing range and whistled for the beast.

Tologrin leaned back against the trunk, panting. _Oh damn. Where's Marley? This was his stupid idea._ She had seen him snagged by the Death Knight's shadowy grip and that was it. Cautious of the huntress and hyena below her, the Paladin nimbly followed the thick branch to its end, then leapt to another. She circled the clearing in this fashion, keeping as quiet as she could and breaking the line of sight between herself and her enemies until the hyena was sniffing in confusion and whining to the huntress.

There was Marley.

He had found a fallen tree, an ancient giant brought down by age or infestation, and crammed himself into the cavern created by the exposed roots. His dark leather armour blended in nicely with the rich earth and if Tologrin hadn't had an elf's superior vision, she likely would have missed him, still as he was. Unwilling to give away her position or his, she did nothing to alert him of her presence, but settled into the branches above him, scarcely daring to breathe.

Marley could hear the voices of the huntress and her Death Knight protector in the clearing. She was mad but he heard confusion and fear now too. _Funny,_ he thought, _ she wasn't afraid while she was in combat, only now, afterward._ Perhaps because she knew she was in no real danger with her dark friend close by. The Death Knight's voice was too low and gravelly to hear from a distance, but he seemed to reassure her and gradually their conversation dwindled into the forest sounds as they left the area.

"I can't believe he didn't kill you!" said Tologrin, slipping out of the tree to land beside the startled Rogue. Any other time, she would have crowed about being able to sneak up on him. As it were, they were both still shaking from the encounter.

"Neither can I," muttered Marley. "Let's go the other way."

"Definitely."

--

Wind curled the pale sand of Desolace into a delicate coil before dropping it back against the bitter desert with a whisper. Pelcyr hadn't thought sand could have a taste but it did here. It was acrid and lifeless, not a hint of fertility or nurturing in it. No wonder nothing grew here. The place had been scored and dessicated by demons, poisoned by twisted magic.

"What a depressing place," said Medarion, echoing his sister's thoughts. They stood at a crossroads, contemplating the bleak landscape while Tialla consulted her map. Pelcyr pulled her cloak across her nose to keep the dust out but sneezed anyway.

"Why are we here?" she asked, not for the first time.

"Satyrs," said Tialla absent-mindedly. Pelcyr looked up the steep slope to their left. Some grass, more silver than green, clung to the dusty soil. Between the crests of two adjoining ridges, she could just make out a blue and gold penant, the symbol of Alliance territory.

"We should get rooms for the night," suggested the Priestess, hoping for the possibility of a bath. The others agreed and they ascended the dirt path. The inn, unsurprisingly, was not crowded. The innkeeper was glad for their silver and more than happy to heat water for Pelcyr's bath. Afterward, the trio sat in the common room, eating a plain but decent meal and watching Tialla mark things on her map. The Druid had apparently been sent to deal with an infestation- a cult- of satyrs who were helping in some way (Pelcyr was not sure what way) a coven of demons further to the south. The map and conversation piqued the interest of another patron, another Night Elf who had been sitting by himself near the door, a cowl pulled up so that nothing but his eyes showed in the evening shadows."Hunting satyrs, are you?" he murmured and slid onto the bench beside Pelcyr. She scooted over to make room for him while Medarion scowled. "Been doing some of that myself. I can tell you what I've learned of their movements and provide you with some _assistance_." He slid two daggers from their sheaths faster than Pelcyr could follow and spun them with effortless dexterity.

"You're welcome to it," said Tialla to the Rogue with a confident nod. "Though I'm not sure I've seen Medarion miss yet." The new-comer chuckled.

"A Shadow priest," he said appreciatively and nodded to Medarion. The siblings exchanged a glance.

"A mage," said Medarion quietly. There was a small silence as the Rogue digested this.

"You're a what?" he said, voice flat.

"A mage," Medarion repeated, holding the other's eyes with his for a moment. "My specialty is fire." Pelcyr twisted uncomfortably on her seat. The Rogue narrowed his eyes.

"Heretic," he hissed, and stood, fury stuttering in his glowing eyes, "Traitor!" Medarion made no move, simply kept his gaze locked on the other man. Tialla shifted her weight, drawing on the grace and ferocity of her panther self, but it was Pelcyr who was on her feet first.

"How dare you!" she hissed, voice cold and brittle with anger. "My brother is neither of these things! I demand an apology!"

The Rogue's eyebrows rose. "You knew this and you stand for him? Sister? Then you're damned as well! You should both- all!- be thrown out of here. Go back to your Black Temple, you-"

He didn't get to finish because Pelcyr had drawn back one tiny fist and belted him in the mouth. For a moment there was silence. The other four or five customers had taken note once the voices rose, but now they were on their feet, not sure whether to back the Rogue or the Priestess.

The Rogue put fingertips to his mouth and drew them away bloody, eyes widening, incredulous. "You would dare defend him this far?" he whispered. Pelcyr was trembling, not with fear but rage.

"And further," she hissed. She saw the innkeeper creeping up to the disturbance. "We'll finish this outside." She turned on one slippered heel and marched out of the building, hands clenched at her sides.

Tialla stared at Medarion in horror as the Rogue stalked out after his sister.

"Aren't you going to-?"

"Help her? Does she look like she needs it?" He sighed and looked at the table top. "Welcome to my childhood," he muttered sardonically and rose. Tialla furrowed her brow.

"I don't understand," she said.

"You're a Night Elf too, Tialla," he said as they joined the small crowd outside. Someone had planted a spear in the ground halfway between the two combatants to serve as a duel flag. The Rogue had removed his voluminous cloak and held his daggers at the ready, hard-eyed and bloody-mouthed. Pelcyr pushed up her sleeves. "If an elf is a mage, then he's a Blood Elf. Or he's Illidan Stormrage."

Without warning, the Rogue leapt across the space between he and Pelcyr, daggers leading, green hair flying in a banner behind him. Pelcyr side-stepped him, chanting, and golden light sparkled around her hands. The Rogue spun on his heel, lashing out with one knife. Pelcyr twisted. The blade slid through the drape of fabric gathered at her cuff and the Rogue turned in mid-thrust to re-direct his other weapon. A burst of golden light slashed across his chest and sent him spinning to the dirt on all fours.

"When we were children, we lived deep in the forest of Ashenvale. Very deep. So deep that the slopes we played on as children were the feet of Mount Hyjal. We didn't know the significance. Once a month, a caravan would come to our village to trade. Ashenvale is dangerous country and the caravan always had guards, hired swords to defend it from beasts and brigands. Then, when I was nine and Pel was ten, one of the hired swords didn't have a sword. She had a staff."

The Rogue sprang to his feet just in time to take another blow from Pelcyr's holy might. He coughed and fixed her with fury in his eyes. She backed away, still holding some flickering power in her cupped hands. The Rogue ran at her, flipped into the air and scissored his baldes through the space where she had just been. His feet touched the ground and he burst into flames. With a yelp, he threw himself down, rolling the sacred fire out in the dust. Now when he rose, he was more cautious. She needed to keep her feet planted and concentration intact to cast, but every time he came near, she would simply twist or duck and throw off another spell, battering him with her goddess' gift.

"I was mesmerized," Medarion continued, "And the woman agreed to teach me some small pieces of arcane magic. She came once a month and after three years- when I was, ironically, determined to become a Rogue- she confessed that I had such talent as she had not seen in recent memory." He sighed. "So I chose to pursue magic. I went to Stormwind. Pelcyr came with me."

Finally, it seemed the Rogue had cornered her, harried by one blade or the other and unable to hold her will long enough to complete a spell. With a look of exasperation, she threw up one hand, murmured something and the Rogue went white as a sheet. He stared at the priestess in utter horror for a moment- and then he ran. He dashed blindly from the loose circle of on-lookers and scrabbled madly up the hill behind them, terrified.

"It was in Stormwind that I learned Night Elves do not become mages. It is no longer our way. I was looked on with curiousity by some, confusion and mistrust by others, and hatred by a good number. Pelcyr is my older sister. She took it on herself to mete out justice." Medarion smirked as the Rogue warily re-entered the duellist's circle, obviously perplexed by what had just happened. Pelcyr strode up to him and thrust her hand skyward again. The Rogue's eyes widened. Instead of a spell though, she kicked his legs out from under him.

"Don't," she said, pretty face scrunched up in fury, "be calling my brother anything but 'sir'."

--

Ilsa sat on a felled tree and cleaned the cut on Thorns' ear. "Poor girl," she crooned, "Ha, don't pull away, I'll get this in your eye and that I can guarantee you won't enjoy. That's a good girl. Gooood girl."

Vedenrith watched the huntress care for her pet and gently explored the stump of his left shoulder with gloved fingers. He winced. It hadn't hurt for weeks now but somehow he'd managed to strain something in there during his brief encounter with the undead Rogue. _How do you pull a muscle that doesn't exist anymore?_ Maybe he just thought it should hurt. Maybe it was something attached to his chest or collarbone. Holding his sword one-handed had been a strain. Getting it to be where he wanted when he needed was an even larger strain. Vedenrith looked on the tussle with the Rogue as good news- he doubted the Forsaken had even realized he was fighting a one-armed man.

Then again, the lad had been a good thirty years his junior, if not more. Vedenrith sighed.

"You okay?" Ilsa tossed the question over her shoulder, seeing her mentor grimace and gingerly prod his shoulder.

"Fine, thank you," he replied smoothly. Realistically, he didn't need to use a sword to beat someone as inexperienced as the Rogue. The runes would see to that.

"They didn't stick around," she said, peering at her handiwork. The hyena sat lazily, panting. "But we're close to their base. If they ran off to tell someone they'd seen us, we could be in trouble."

Vedenrith stretched and got to his feet. "Let's head north of the river."

"Aren't there Trolls up there?"

"My dear, there are Trolls _everywhere_ in Stranglethorn. And tigers and raptors and apes and pirates. North of the river simply takes us out of the Horde's backyard and makes us look less like possible spies."

Ilsa nodded. "Okay." She paused to adjust her pack. "Sometime this week we should go into Booty Bay. I have some good hides to sell."

"Maybe enough for you to afford a mount at last?" smiled the Death Knight.

She grinned back. "Damn right."

At first, Ilsa had defended her horse-less-ness by saying she enjoyed walking. Then she put forth the explanation that Thorns wouldn't be able to keep up with a horse. After a while she admitted she simply didn't have the money.

"I know how to ride," she had said forlornly, "But I've always got repairs to pay for, or arrows to buy, or food for Thorns. Always something." Vedenrith offered to buy her a mount and got a look of hurt pride such as he hadn't expected. So he lead Blueberry, who was more than happy to amble along without a man in platemail on her back, and followed Ilsa.

Ilsa hunted and tanned the hides of her prey, slowly building an impressive stack of beautiful leather. Vedenrith practiced with his sword in the morning before the jungle became too unbearably hot, and then again in the evening when it began to cool down.

It wasn't till their second week together that he had realized she watched him everyday. It was disconcerting at first. Vedenrith was accustomed to being alone, Blueberry notwithstanding. Having her idlly watch him drill while she scraped hides or checked her tanning pits was one thing. She had her goals, he had his. But she would wake up early just to see him practice. Or set aside her skinning knife in the evening and just sit and watch.

It unnerved him because he wasn't sure if she had some morbid fascination with his missing arm, or because he stripped to the waist and went barefoot when he drilled, or if she'd simply never seen someone of his caliber at practice. Finally, he had to ask and the answer he got was not anything he expected.

"You're dancing," she said, laughter in her eyes, "it's like a dance, you and the sword. I don't fight like that. I don't know anyone who does."

"Not even your Draenei friend?"

"I never watched him practice too closely. Maybe he did. But he always had a shield. He stood differently, like he had his back to something precious. You move with the sword like it's the precious thing."

Vedenrith looked at the runed blade in his hand. Apparently, it had been his since… before. He'd woken holding it in that dark citadel, with the taste of death in his mouth and the Lich King's whisper in his mind. Whoever he had been, this sword was part of that. They'd let him keep it, spellbound as he was, since he was good with it. He'd put the runes on it as his first test.

"It's never let me down," he said and went back to drilling, moving with the weight of the great blade, turning and counterbalancing and jabbing and parrying. He had to adapt his old forms to his disability, had to compound the strength of his right arm to make up for the lack of a left. He invited Ilsa to spar and she did, wide-eyed and cautious at first. In the first weeks, they tied as often as not.

Vedenrith no longer asked her to duel him. He gave her instructions with her own swordplay but shook his head gently when she asked to take him on. He'd come to a dangerous point where he had enough control to be deadly and not enough to pull his blows.

"When we go to Booty Bay," he said, "I think I'll look for that Tauren friend of yours..."

--

Beln made it back to Booty Bay shortly after sunrise. Humming jauntily to himself, he shouldered his sack of raptor parts through the inn door and acquired after an early breakfast.

Three hours later, when Harlan found him, he was still humming.

"You had a successful night, I see," the elderly Paladin observed with an arched eyebrow. He lowered himself stiffly onto the bench opposite the cheerful Draenei.

"And I brought you a whole armload of raptor horns, too," he said happily. Harlan narrowed his eyes, suspicious.

"You sure you were in the jungle all night?"

"Definitely."

"Hmmm."

"So when do we start training?"

"Have you slept?"

"Not yet."

"Hmmm."

Harlan took his time at a leisurely meal, watching his erstwhile apprentice tap his hooves on the floor, examine every inch of the inn with his eyes and drum his fingers on the table top, all while smiling blissfully to himself. He sipped his coffee and evaluated Beln over the rim of the cup.

"Who's your girlfriend?" asked the Paladin. Beln's gaze dropped instantly from the rafters.

"What?"

Harlan smirked to himself. "Your girlfriend. Who is she?"

"I… uh…"

The Paladin shrugged. "All right. Don't tell me. But don't expect me to be soft on you today. It was your choice to stay up all night."

Beln was trying to get his grin under control. "I expect nothing less than the most merciless training you can offer."

"And you'll get it."

The young warrior began to show signs of fatigue somewhere in the third hour of their session. Beln was strong- soberingly, inhumanly strong- and Harlan saw this as an edge. He sought to improve upon it.

"How are you going to run wearing full plate if you can't run now?" bellowed the Paladin. Beln, clad in his entire set of mail plus a leather backpack filled to bulging with sand, wheezed to a halt in front of his instructor.

"Good question," he panted. "By the Naaru, but it's hot out here!"

"Indeed it is. And hotter still in the sweltering mire of Zangamarsh, or the searing plateaus of the Blade's Edge mountains! You wouldn't want to be in mail, fighting hand to hand in those places. You're a warrior- you'll be wearing plate," lectured Harlan, one fist clutching the air, fire in his eyes, "and you'll be sweating, swearing, taking blows meant to land on more delicate friends! It'll feel like you're wearing an anvil, but each time they strike you, they won't be striking your companions."

Beln struggled upright, chest heaving, pressing into the straps of the pack. He straightened his back, feeling the immense weight settling across his shoulders and hips. His neck cramped and he rolled his head from side to side to relax the muscles.

"That's better. Now, down the beach and back to me!" The Paladin stood with folded arms, watching his pupil stagger more than run to the edge of the jungle, turn and plod back. "Once more!"

"Ugh…" His knees were shaking.

"Is your girlfriend a warrior?" asked Harlan, pinning Beln with his gaze.

"She's… she's a Druid."

"Oh? And if someone, some savage Orc, or slavering minion of the Scourge, were to swing an axe at your beloved, clad only in boiled leather, what would you do?"

_Probably watch her tuirn them to ash with a single spell. Well, maybe not the Orc. They'd probably just be sparring._ "I'd jump between them."

"Wearing chainmail?! Suicide!" gasped the Paladin, slapping one hand to his chest in mock horror. "Do you know what an axe to the chest does to a fighter in chainmail?"

"Uh… no. I don't think I want to."

"Well I know," said Harlan, voice lowering, "I've seen it. I saw a Shaman, tough as anything and thrice as lovely, throw herself in front of an Ogre attacking her priest brother. An axe, wielded by an arm of that immense strength. It cut her in two."

Beln blinked, queasy, and thought of the young Shaman he had travelled to Stormwind with just weeks ago. He thought of Pelcyr, in her flowing robes, and of Medarion, with his stately silks. He thought of how little there was between their flesh and a weapon, and he touched his own chest.

"Platemail," he said with certainty. Then he thought of the size of Ogres and stared at his own hands. "I could cut someone in two who's wearing chainmail?"

Harlan nodded. "Someday, I don't doubt it."

"I don't think I want to."

"It's them or your girlfriend."

Beln swallowed. He remembered Ironcore in lion form, fighting the snapjaws off the coast of Tanaris, remembered her in the desert summoning lightning to smite a dozen basilisks and hyenas. He had been amazed but those creatures were nothing compared to the things he had heard of in Outland or Northrend. Somewhere out there was something capable of hurting her. He felt fury creep into his exhaustion.

"Them," he said darkly. Harlan smiled and clapped the warrior on the back, almost knocking him off balance.

"Don't fret about it, lad. I've also seen a lady Druid tear down the very stars to dash her enemies into oblivion. Think of her as the sword and yourself as the shield."

Beln had a brief vision of himself dressed head to toe in gleaming steel, a daunting helm obscuring all but his glowing eyes, sword in one hand, shield strapped to forearm, knee-deep in faceless adversaries, effortlessly throwing off their advance while Ironcore stood behind him, dark-eyed and terrible, a force of nature against which no enemy could stand. He smiled wolfishly.

"Sword and shield," he said. Then he took a deep breath and set off at a lumbering jog down the beach again. Harlan hummed to himself.

--

Khemat Thunderhorn held the parchment in one hand, reading while she dug in her pocket for a few coppers to give the wide-eyed Troll urchin who had scampered up beside her.

"Thank yoo lady," said the whelp and took off with a toothy grin. Khemat continued past the orphanage, giving a nod to the harassed-looking dwarven woman herding a mixed-race group of children inside.

_My old friend, Khemat Thunderhorn,_ the letter began, _it has been too long since we last spoke. War has an unfortunate way of doing that, but at present I suspect neither of our lives is too full of mayhem. I have recently been posted to Grom'gol to instruct the next generation in my chosen professions. This leads to some measure of stability, if not peace._

Khemat chuckled. "No, Stranglethorn was never a place of peace, was it Kafa?" she murmured to herself.

_However, I must admit this letter has an ulterior motive. I have grown tired of war, of conflict, of senseless hates and useless animosity. Despite that, I cannot change the woman I am and the talents I have cultivated. It is my wish to offer these talents to the Cenarion Circle, if they would have use for them._

That was unexpected. Khemat stopped walking.

Kafa, tired of fighting? The Ironcore that she remembered was at her finest hour in the heat of battle. Then she frowned and re-read the passage. _Tired of war._ Not tired of fighting, necessarily. Just of the war. Ah.

"Tired of squabbling with the Alliance, are you?" said the healer with satisfaction, and resumed her pace.

_My tenure continues til the middle of next year, but once it has ended, I stand ready to join you in Shattrath and to earn the respect of your comrades._

_Sincerely, your sister-in-battle,_

_Kafa Winterhoof_

Khemat folded the letter carefully and slid it into a pocket in her sleeve. That was one of the things she liked about humans- they thought of brilliant little details like sleeve pockets. Sharing such small but useful things with others was one of the many reasons she enjoyed working with _all_ the races of Azeroth, not just those of the Horde.

"Hmm," she said to herself. She remembered Kafa well, remembered Kafa in Stranglethorn vividly, the stark blackness of her fur turning her into a deadly, living shadow in the deep jungle. She remembered the two of them venturing into ancient ruins, curious and naieve, and finding themselves surrounded by fierce, ravenous Trolls, who were not so devout in their cannibalism that they would turn down two inexperienced Tauren entrees.

Khemat had fought with sorrowed desperation, feeling that she was only staving off her death but for another moment. Kafa had fought like a berserker. They were both still clumsy with their power, though coming into it more and more fully. Khemat called roots up from the ground to choke and entangle, swung her staff in sweeping arcs as she retreated.

Kafa had jumped from form to form, now a lion, fatally mauling one Troll, then becoming a bear, thick hide shrugging off spears and arrows, then back upright, swinging her mace, slinging green flame. She had infuriated the Trolls and dragged their attention away from Khemat. Bloodied and weak, the healer saw her companion born down by four of the savages, kicking and thrashing, bellowing wordless rage as they strove to hold her.

As Khemat scrambled to her aid, she saw one Troll lean eagerly, jaws gaping. His teeth left deep gouges across Kafa's muzzle where he bit her, marks that she retained to this day as pale scars. But the Troll had sacrificed his life for that triumph. With arms and legs pinned, Kafa jerked her head and rammed her horn into the Troll's neck, goring him in one side and out the other.

It took Khemat an hour to calm her shaking friend afterwards and not all of the shaking was from terror. In another life, one where she harboured less of a connection with the Earthmother, Kafa Winterhoof would have carried two maces and worn platemail.

"If it's Mulgore you pine for," said a silky voice, "perhaps a visit to Nagrand would suffice?" Khemat turned and nodded in greeting to the raven-haired man behind her. She was no judge of human beauty- people just didn't look right without a tail, Khemat thought- but common opinion was that Aetos Grey ranked very high indeed. Unfortunately for his admirers, the Warlock was more interested in his books.

"Not Mulgore, Grayeagle. Stranglethorn."

"You're kidding," he said, sticking out his tongue in disgust.

"Now so much the place as the company I kept while enjoying its, ah, comforts." She showed Kafa's letter to Aetos. "I've an old friend who wishes to join us."

"Another Druid for the Circle, eh?"

She nodded.

"What's her specialty?" he asked.

"Not getting killed."

"Oh, I like her already."

--

Ironcore sat on the edge of the zeppelin platform, staring out across the sea, turning over recent events in her mind. _So it wasn't just lust_.

"What's new?" said Jhorl affably, coming up to stand beside her, no doubt curious where she had been all night. Ironcore propped her chin on her fist.

"I'm in love," she said.


	13. The Sky Moves Sideways

A/N: Here's to Night Elf mages, Human hunters, and Azeroth-wrecking natural disasters. What's fan-fiction today is canon next year! Now, let's progress this plot along some...

**Chapter 13 – The Sky Moves Sideways**

Her blood steamed and her skin blistered with cold. Ironcore stumbled aside, narrowly avoiding the silver point of the sword, swung clumsily with her mace and felt the shudder of impact. Before her opponent could regain his composure, roots swarmed from the ground, snatching at his limbs, coiling, constricting. She backed off, paused and concentrated long enough to wash the searing heat out of her veins and refocus her attention. Then she narrowed her eyes on the man. With her hooked beak partially agape, thick feathered arms making a crescent before her, she drew a great humming power out of the air with taloned hands.

Vedenrith managed to free his legs before an awesome deluge of raw energy stamped him flat against the ground. He lay there, air rattling in his lungs. "I yield," he managed after a couple of breathless gulps. Ilsa was at his side then, helping him rise. Translucent green hazed his vision and he felt considerably better, though he still let the huntress guide him to sit on a fallen log.

"You're becoming tough to beat," wheezed the Druid as she took a seat beside him. The Death Knight nodded. They were both out of breath and sweating.

"Thank you," he replied and accepted the leather waterskin she offered in one clawed hand. At first, she had dueled him in her own form, letting her armour turn aside his blows and countering his runes with nature magic. As the weeks passed, she had switched between lion and bear forms, one moment attacking with relentless ferocity, the next shrugging off blows and spells with magically augmented toughness. It was only within the last week that she had finally taken her most powerful form- that of the owl-like, magically adept Moonkin- when she faced him. She no longer held back.

"You're quite welcome," she replied and stretched, the hulking, feathered shape of the Moonkin gone in a puff of down. Vedenrith was sure she didn't need to shed feathers when she changed form; it seemed like it was mostly for show. "These past three months have been a valuable learning experience."

"And I trust they were not terribly boring."

"Hardly! I asked Jhorl- the guard- to duel me once and he ran away, then came back with six friends. And my students-" here she paused to aim a stony look at the two young alchemists standing ill at ease across the clearing, "- aren't worth challenging."

"She's talking about us," said Tologrin, fingers clutching the reins of her charger til the leather creaked. "To _them_." Beside her, Marley ground his teeth in irritation.

"I know she's getting friendly with the Cenarion Circle and they welcome all kinds, but I still don't like them." He lowered his head and gave the red-haired huntress the evilest look he could summon. The woman grimaced in irritation and looked away. "I especially don't like _him_."

Tologrin laughed airily. "You got your ass kicked by a one-armed man."

"A one-armed _Death Knight_, dammit! You wouldn't have lasted any longer against him than I did!"

The Paladin shrugged, ignoring Marley's fury. "This has nothing to do with alchemy. Why does she make us come with her when she duels him?"

"I dunno. I come because it's fun to watch her trounce him."

"Yeah, someday she'd not going to. Then what?"

"Then maybe she won't make us come anymore."

"I doubt it." Tologrin tossed her hair and sniffed.

"I think she makes us come because she wants us to see them as more than just enemies," said Marley quietly. "I don't think Ironcore quite believes in two factions anymore."

Vedenrith glanced up at the pair, both mounted stiffly and watching the proceedings with sincere disapproval. "I would hazard that they think somewhat less of you for fraternizing with the enemy," he said slowly.

"They don't know the half of it," said the Druid. "You remember the first time I brought them to the tavern with me? Marley almost died on the spot when I said hello to you and Tologrin made a sound like a cat with its tail in a door. And when I told them your names and how I met you, they looked like the world had just turned over. They're lucky Beln's never been there on the same night as them."

"How is Beln?" asked Vedenrith with a sly smile.

"Happily wading around the Swamp of Sorrows whacking dragonkin and murlocs. Harlan told him to collect dragon scales and pearls, I think." Her eyes brightened. "He's got arms almost as big as me now."

The Death Knight guffawed. Ilsa stifled a giggle. "Well, it's been lovely as always. We're heading back north again but we'll be back your way in two weeks." The two Alliance nodded to Ironcore, Vedenrith shaking hands politely. Thorns glared across the space to the Blood Elf, a silent snarl wrinkling her lips. Ilsa whistled for her and swung easily into the saddle of her newly purchased gelding. The horse tossed his head as the hyena approached.

"Still not sure if she'll try and eat him," muttered the huntress, scratching vigourously at the gelding's neck to reassure him.

"He'll learn," said Ironcore with Druidic certainty. The two rode off, swiftly melting into the verdant undergrowth.

Ironcore turned to her students.

"How can you be nice to him?" blurted Tologrin belligerently. "He's a human and a Death Knight and-"

"And a kind person, underneath it all," replied Ironcore.

"You could kill him," said Marley darkly, "and you don't."

"Killing someone isn't the point of sparring. The point is to learn, to share, to better your own techniques."

"What if he tried to kill one of us?"

"I told you, he wouldn't. He's sworn never to kill again."

"That's stupid," said the Rogue, fingers knotted in the frayed mane of his boney mount, "especially for a Death Knight. All they're good for is killing. And why should you take his word for it anyway?"

"Why not?"

"He's with the _Alliance_!" said Tologrin in exasperation. Finally, Ironcore had found something to unite her students. She sighed.

"I don't care. Niether does he. Neither does Ilsa. If we all agree to ignore that one fact, we get along fine."

"But you shouldn't ignore it," said Marley vehemently. "What did the humans ever do for your people, Ironcore? Did they help them when they needed it? Or did they look at you as quaint animals who had discovered fire? The Warchief didn't think that. And he helped your people!"

"He did. And we are all very grateful for it. But even the Warchief can see that what this world faces is bigger than one side or the other. He made a truce with Theramore when the tsunami destroyed Ratchet and believes more heartily in diplomacy than brute force, as I do." She shook her head. "Perhaps I should not have brought you here. You are learning nothing. Perhaps from now on I will show you only alchemy."

They rode back to Grom'gol in silence. Jhorl was at the gate when they returned.

"How was your duel?"

"Close," said Ironcore, "very close."

"You won?"

"I did."

He whistled, then watched the two younger Horde members go their separate ways without a word to their teacher. "What's with them?"

"They don't understand why I don't kill the Death Knight."

Jhorl snorted. "Give them ten years. Then they'll know what it is to be bored and tough."

"You don't take issue with my friendship, then?"

"Eh. You spend enough time in Booty Bay and you realize everyone has a soul of some kind."

***

It was worst when it rained. Beln itched everywhere inside the chainmail, wet cotton padding sticking to his skin, little fibres digging at him, but he couldn't reach them to scratch. Harlan had laughed, told him to do something to get his mind off it and Beln had gone out and murdered dragonkin til he could hardly lift his sword. He still itched.

Unfortunately, it was usually raining in the Swamp of Sorrows. Beln swiftly understood why the place had been stuck with such an alluring name. Simply being in that overcast, murky, boggy, humid hell made him irritable and grumpy. The locals and wildlife didn't make it anymore pleasant and the warrior was horrified to find himself set to killing the Broken- deformed, vicious kin of his own kind. Worse yet, it was his _own kind_ who asked him to do it.

A month in that torturous mire sapped his spirit to the point where he had the will to do little but climb onto his Elekk and mumble unfelt encouragement each morning as they headed out. On the thirtieth day, he brightened a little, made the trek through Deadwind Pass and into Duskwood, then turned south and rode through Stranglethorn with a harder, cagier outlook on the once-daunting jungle.

Booty Bay was a glittering jewel of sunshine, running water and fresh clothes. Beln ate, bathed and dropped into a bed above the tavern all before the sun had begun to set.

He woke in the small hours, in the eerie limbo between night and dawn. The town was silent save for the creak of wood and hypnotic swish of the tide. Below him, in the common room of the inn, there was a wordless drone of voices, not the rowdy bravado of evening tales punctuated with laughter, but the steady monotonous narrative of old friends well-met after years or tired companions up early to plan a day.

Beln sat up and slowly stretched his legs. All that riding and slogging through viscous mud made him sore. He could probably sprint up and down that beach with a knapsack full of sand now, once his muscles unkinked. The bed didn't help. Goblins owned the inn and though they were usually quite canny when it came to catering to the needs of guests, someone had erred on the side of average when they purchased bed frames. Either Beln's hooves stuck out or he curled up and awoke with cramps. Harlan had looked at him blankly when Beln complained and was surprised when the Draenei assured him that yes, hooves do feel cold.

The voices below petered out and there was the scrape of a chair being pushed back. Someone got up and left the inn. Beln rubbed the back of his calves and sighed. Harlan had agreed to meet him on the beach and hinted he had a surprise of some kind in store. Beln wasn't sure what kind of surprise the old Paladin was hiding, but he was fairly certain it would involve pain on his part and glee for the human.

The doorknob clicked.

Beln was on his feet instantly, cramps forgotten, sword snatched up noiselessly. He slid sideways along the far wall, eyeing the open window with its curtains not drawn closed. Late moonlight made a wan rectangle on the floorboards. The intruder would be looking into the light, eyes adjusted to the brighter atmosphere of the corridor. Beside the window, Beln would be almost invisible.

The door swung inwards. For a moment, Beln paused, waiting for the intruder to make the first move.

"I can see you over there," said a familiar voice. He could hear the grin in her words even with the door still blocking his view. With a smothered laugh, he dropped the blade and closed the distance between himself and the towering silhouette.

"Ironcore," he growled affectionately, pulling her into the room and shutting the door quietly, "How did you know where to find me?" She looped her arms around his neck, eye to eye with him.

"I was downstairs with Khemat and… I can smell you," she whispered and nuzzled his jaw, playfully pushing him back to the bed with her hips.

"I just bathed!" he argued, feeling a little self-conscious but sitting down anyway when he felt the back of his knees hit the too-small bed frame. Ironcore chuckled softly into his hair.

"No! Smell you like a lioness smells her mate," she murmured and nibbled his neck with her lips. He tried to wriggle away and suppress boyish laughter even while he crushed her against him.

"So you _can_ turn into a lioness now?"

"Someday I'll figure it out, just for you. Oh my!" The Druid was so busy tickling him that she wasn't prepared when he pulled her down on top of him and then rolled over, pinning her against the tangled sheets. "Hello!"

"I missed you."

"Mmm. I can tell. How was the Swamp?"

Beln slithered down her body, breathing in the scent of worn leather armour and warm dark fur. "Wet. Buggy. Depressing."

"Character-building, then?"

"Oh very."

"Feeling better after ten solid hours of sleep?"

"You've been downstairs for ten hours?"

"No, just three." Ironcore watched him try to unbutton her pants with his teeth. "I was going to come up earlier but I thought you might be more… alert if I let you sleep."

Beln looked up, grinning. "I can _sleep_ anytime. I don't get to do _this_ near often enough."

***

Harlan Meyer stood on the strand with a mug of coffee cupped in both hands. It was chilly before the sun rose. He watched his only student amble towards him.

"Good morning Beln," he said fondly, not removing either hand from the earthen cup.

"Good morning!" greeted the young man cheerfully. It was one of the qualities Harlan found he most enjoyed in the Draenei- no matter what, they always seemed full of energy. Especially this one.

"I have no lesson for you today," he announced and saw the warrior's face fall. _By the Light, the man likes to work._ "We have come to the point where I have nothing more to teach you. Ah! No. You said you would respect my word on this matter. I do have two things else I would leave you with however." He gestured to the inn. "Shall we retire and discover them?"

"Of course, sir," Beln replied. They hiked up the path together. As they re-entered the inn, Harlan made note of the other patrons. Three gnomes at one table, pouring over a map. A dwarf, two humans and one goblin were sharing bleary stories of the previous nights' conquest, while a Draenei woman listened and occasionally rolled her eyes. In the corner, a Forsaken man, sound asleep in his chair while his Orc companion worked deftly with two sets of pliers, knitting chain rings into workable armour. And by the window, deep in conversation, two Tauren women, both venerable and both Druids, judging from their attire. Harlan's appraisal paused on the pair. One was white-furred, with pale hooves and luminous green eyes. She wore the brown and ivory tabard of the Cenarion Expedition and a glowing circlet on her brow. The other was black without relief, dark-eyed and dressed in intricate leather armour, her mane tousled and wild. They made an interesting study in similarities and differences.

Harlan nodded to the Draenei woman and she stood up from the table, excusing herself.

"This is Feeya," said Harlan. "She is a warrior, like you, and willing to take you on as her student." Beln looked her up and down with some trepidation and shook her hand in greeting.

"I am Beln," he said, "I am thankful you have accepted me."

Feeya smiled. "You won't be in about ten minutes. C'mon Harlan, let's get him some real armour."

With that, the trio ascended to Harlan's room, which as far as Beln could tell was one he had permanently. Against one wall was a chest, ebony with steel brackets. On the lid was a crest that Beln had seen before but couldn't immediately place. Harlan opened it.

"You've worked hard for this, Beln," he said, "I've rarely had a student as dedicated and eager for punishment as you." He smiled and stepped back. The warrior moved forward and stared into the chest.

"This… is for me?"

Harlan laughed. "It's the least I could do," he said.

Beln stared at the full set of plate mail and tried not to tear up.

***

It had been five months since the day Beln had first donned his daunting new armour. Feeya had driven him up the continent, through swamps and deserts and wetlands, over seemingly bottomless chasms where the wind screamed and tugged at his hair, through suffocating tunnels made through the roots of mountains, and then over the mountains themselves, where the air was so thin Beln walked beside his Elekk, wheezing at the altitude.

It had been five months since he had spoken more than a pleasant greeting to anyone besides his pitiless trainer. Compared to Feeya, Harlan had been indulgent with the young Draenei. Feeya was ancient, though she didn't look it, and canny. She saw potential in him and where she saw potential she drilled ruthlessly until she saw results.

"Why are we going back to the Swamp?" he grimaced. He still hated the Swamp beyond any other terrain.

"We aren't," said Feeya, directing her armoured ram with her knees. In her lap she held a bow, strung and fitted with an arrow. "We're going to the Black Gate."

"We're _what_?"

"We're going to Outlands," she affirmed. "Next week. I want you to see the Gate and lose your fear of the thing before we enter it."

"It's just a gate, isn't it?"

Feeya laughed drily. "Sure. It's _just a gate_ like Teldrassil is _just a tree_."

"Oh. Are you sure I should be going to Outlands? Am I ready for that?"

"If you weren't I wouldn't even take you to the Gate. You still don't trust my judgment, Beln?"

He sighed. Part of it was a lingering discomfort with his own kind. Feeya was the only Draenei he'd spent any extended time with since the Exodar had crashed. She was tacit, calculating, logical and almost humourless, although she possessed the same streak of gleeful sadism that Harlan and every other arms trainer seemed to be born with. She was, in short, nothing like Beln, nothing like his family and nothing at all like the Night Elf siblings he had befriended.

She was the antithesis of Ironcore. In a fight, the warrior relied on caution and sensibility, working her way through howling, ax-waving problems step-by-step. Ironcore, on the other hand, was tenuously restrained chaos in battle. Beln wasn't sure if that was necessarily a flaw, since her un-coordinated actions sowed disorder among her enemies to the point where the confusion worked in her favour and her immense power simply rolled over them. He had no doubt Feeya would have been appalled at the strategy and amazed that it worked.

And that was the other part of it. Feeya was female and his own kind and he felt nothing for her save the fearful respect of a well-disciplined student. He thought he ought to feel something, some flutter in his chest when Feeya stood framed in the rising sun or soaked to the skin by warm rain. He couldn't. He admired her grace and balance, he was baffled by her stoicism and he flinched _before_ she caught him staring because he knew she would scold him for day-dreaming. But it wasn't her. All his day-dreams had ebony fur and green flames burning in the back of dark eyes.

"I trust your judgment," he replied.

"You don't trust _me_," she said. It was not an accusation and she wasn't disappointed. It was just a statement.

"It's not trust, Feeya. I trust you completely. I just… It's hard to explain. I…"

"Ah," she said and a little smile quirked her lips, "I know. You miss your girlfriend."

"I- what? How did you-?"

"Harlan told me you had a girlfriend in Booty Bay. Do you?"

"…sort of."

"You don't 'sort of' have a girlfriend, Beln. You do or you don't."

"I definitely have a girlfriend," he said, feeling silly referring to a grown woman as a 'girlfriend', and eyed his trainer. "I do trust you, Feeya. It's hard being a man alone with a woman he doesn't love for this long."

She nodded and the smile grew. "I understand."

"You have someone?"

"Not specifically. So how do you definitely, but sort of have a girlfriend?"

"I definitely have a girlfriend. She's not in Booty Bay."

"Oh?"

Beln glanced away into the hanging vines and creeping moss and fetid haze that hung over the Swamp. "She's in Grom'gol."

There were no words between them for a long moment, just the wails and whines of local fauna and the squelching sound of their mounts' hooves in the mire.

Then Feeya asked slowly, "What is she?"

"A Druid," said Beln before realizing the question was one of race, not class. Then he realized that answered both questions.

"Velen's name," muttered Feeya, squinting into the ochre gloom. Then she turned back abruptly, something dawning on her. "Which one?"

"I don't think you've met."

"No, there were two Tauren Druids in the tavern the morning I met you. They both watched you from across the room. You never looked at them. I thought you were just interested in what Harlan was saying. It makes sense now. You're cagey, Beln. Wouldn't even look at her in mixed company. Which one is she? The black one or the white one?"

Beln found himself smiling. "Black one. Ironcore."

"Beln, she's… twice your age! Easily!"

Beln laughed, surprised and delighted that, all things considered, Feeya was most outraged by their age difference. "She's not. They age faster than us."

"She's not immortal," said Feeya. The statement started as a warning and slipped into sympathy by the final syllable. Beln nodded.

"That's exactly what her brother said to her. She told him no one's immortal around here."

Feeya snorted delicately. "She has some sense, then. But not a lot! What are you thinking? What is she thinking? She's at least old enough to know better!"

"She's joining the Cenarion Expedition. I will too once I'm useful."

"How are you useful to a pack of Druids?"

"I can protect them."

Feeya fell into thoughtful silence, watching Beln as they rode. The path widened gradually and at some point Beln realized they were riding over dirty, sunken cobblestones, not packed earth. He hadn't ranged this far south when he had enjoyed the Swamp previously. This road lead somewhere important. _The Black Gate_, he thought and shuddered. _Outland_.

"You're not the first, you know," said Feeya finally.

"If it's half as intimidating as you're making it out to be, I hope not," he said and rubbed his thigh with one hand, feeling unaccountably jumpy.

"Not the Gate. The girlfriend. I've known two other couples that were… not politically accepted."

"I didn't think we were but… Really? You know someone else?"

"Sure," she said, face betraying nothing, "Harlan."

Beln almost fell out of the saddle. "He- no way! He told me- like- his entire life story! He didn't mention anything about-"

"He tell you about his wife?"

"Yeah. Lots. All the time. He adored her. She's dead now."

"Yes," said Feeya and nothing more.

"Wait," said Beln after a moment. "She's… Forsaken? But… but they have _kids_! Gah!"

"The kids happened _before_ she died. Most of the Forsaken rise so angry at the living they throw away their old lives. Daphne came back to find her family."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"_Really?_"

Feeya narrowed her eyes.

"Why didn't he tell me?"

"Why didn't you tell him?"

"I didn't think- he's a Paladin!"

"And a man in love."

"Damn."

"Damn indeed. I thought it was a human… thing. There was another couple, not quite as overt as Harlan and Daphne, when we were working together. Orcish man, human woman. They had a daughter." Feeya's lip curled with involuntary distaste.

"A daughter?" said Beln, trying to picture a half-Orc, half-human woman. _Like Ilsa, but with green skin and… fangs?_ A sudden, world-altering thought occurred to him. "Oh, crap."

"Sure. Orcs and humans can interbreed. Orcs and Draenei can interbreed. It follows that Draenei and humans might be able to but I've never heard of a half-Tauren anything," said his trainer slyly. Beln didn't quite relax.

"I'm not even a warrior. I don't want to be a father."

Feeya was chuckling. Beln was incredulous. It wasn't the first time she had found amusement in his distress, but it was the first time she looked repentant about it.

"You _are_ a warrior, Beln, but I don't think she would want to be a mother at her age anymore than you want to be a father. She's a Druid. She can control her body in ways you can't even wrap your head around. If she doesn't want kids, there won't be kids."

Beln sighed in relief.

"What if she does?"

"Then she's nuts. She didn't look nuts."

"She's not."

They had come to a fork in the road. Beln could see ragged red through the trees ahead of them, dyed leather stretched taut over bent poles. The symmetric, jagged design on the tents reminded Beln of raptor hunting and unexpected joy many months ago. He grinned.

"We're not going there," said Feeya firmly, "Careful Beln. They are your enemies. Your Cenarion girlfriend might not be, but most of her race would stop at nothing to trample you. This way."

He looked to his right. The road widened and there was auburn dust mixed with the mud and peat strewn across it. Suddenly Ironcore seemed very far away.

"What are we doing after we go look at the Gate?"

Feeya continued to scan the trail ahead of them and the brush to either side. She answered non-chalantly, "I thought we'd go back to Booty Bay and provision ourselves before we head into Outland."

"Yes!"

"I demand a formal introduction. And Harlan deserves one too."

"You aren't mad or disappointed, Feeya?"

"Mad? I am mad. You're both idiots. I don't know how this started but it's a bad idea. Disappointed? I can't be disappointed in Harlan for loving his wife. And I _saw_ her, Beln, your big black Druid. If you're going to do it, at least you're doing it with _style_."

Beln sat up a little straighter in the saddle. "So when did you and Harlan work together?"

"Back when he was still an active part of the Argent Crusade."

"That's the symbol that was on the trunk! The one he had my armour in. The black and silver sun! I knew I'd seen that somewhere. What's the Argent Crusade about?"

Feeya stared back at him, bewildered. "_Now_ I'm disappointed. We want to stop the Scourge and destroy Arthas."

***

"My hair is never going to be the same again," moaned Ilsa, leaning her entire weight against the tavern door. She followed its motion and hung grimly onto the handle once it opened fully. Vedenrith patted her shoulder as he followed her in. "And I am _starving_. I never want to eat jerky _anything_ ever again. Or stew anything. And I'm going to have sand in my teeth for the rest of my life. Ugh."

The tavern was brimming with customers and the general mood was decidedly upbeat. Ilsa rolled her shoulders, trying to shake off some of her exhaustion. Beside her, Vedenrith stomped his feet and shook himself, sending up a cloud of reddish dust. The huntress stifled a cough and looked around hopefully for a place to sit. The Death Knight was leaning on her a little, not enough that the other patrons noticed, but Ilsa could tell he was as fatigued as she was and that softened her personal anguish a bit.

"Oh, over there," she said and hooked a finger into his belt, tugging. If he were anyone else, she would have linked elbows, but he liked to have his one hand free in case he needed to defend himself. She'd adopted the belt instead. He didn't seem to mind.

"Vedenrith?" Ilsa's head turned at the voice and the Death Knight went rigid.

A tall, strikingly attractive man stood up from his table, gesturing to them with one long, elegant hand. His robes said _Warlock_ with irrefutable finality but the tabard laid over top bore the crest of the Cenarion Expedition. That combination boggled Ilsa more than the fact he knew her companion by name.

"_Aetos_?" whispered the Death Knight. The two men gave mutual gapes of surprise and then mutually effective glares to everyone between themselves. A little corridor opened up through the other patrons to the Warlock's table and Ilsa, fingers still dug into Vedenrith's belt, was dragged along, staring at the man. He was handsome in a way _no one_ who hadn't made some kind of shady deal with beings of great power and dubious morality should be. She was blushing and he hadn't even looked at her. This was probably why she didn't notice his companions until Vedenrith gently pushed her into a seat and Ilsa found herself beside a familiar face.

"Ironcore!"

"Huntress!" greeted the Druid and clapped her on the shoulder with a broad hand. Another familiar face peered around the Tauren and Ilsa squealed with glee.

"Beln! I haven't seen you in forever!"

"Likewise!" grinned the Draenei. Movement drew her eye and Ilsa did an abrupt double take. Sitting beside Beln were Ironcore's two alchemical apprentices. They both looked like the only reason they were sitting down was because they were too shocked to stand. Ilsa almost laughed, but the scrape of a bench turned her attention across the table. Another Tauren woman, fur pale as starlight, stood clasping her hands together cheerfully. She could have been Ironcore's mirror image. And beside her, smiling with all his teeth, was Ironcore's Troll friend.

"'Lo, Ilsa," he said and wiggled his fingers at her. She waved back with some trepidation, glad there was a table between them.

The white Druid cleared her throat. "Introductions are in order, I belei-," she began and then her jaw dropped. Ilsa followed her gaze. The entire table stopped moving, stopped talking and just stared.

The pretty Warlock had grabbed Vedenrith's jaw and was kissing him on the lips.

"…wha?" said Ilsa, recovering first. The Death Knight looked just as stunned as everyone else. He slithered out of the Warlock's grasp and held up his hand.

"What's going on?"

The white Druid chuckled, voice smooth and deep like Ironcore's but with a curious musicality. "And here I thought all you loved were _books_. Okay!" She clapped her hands. "I am Khemat Thunderhorn, a Druid of the Cenarion Expedition. This is Aetos Grey, a Warlock of no small measure, and my research partner. May I have your name, Death Knight?"

"I- I am Vedenrith," said Vedenrith, still shaken. Aetos Grey was smirking at him triumphantly. "Th-this is my student and travelling companion, Ilsa Birdcatcher, a huntress of no small measure." Ilsa blushed then, more so than she had upon seeing Aetos. Vedenrith complimented her occasionally but he had never done it in company before. It made her heart soar to know he thought such of her.

"Pleased to meet you," said Aetos and extended his hand and a dazzling grin to the huntress. She took it, grinning back without reservation. She heard Ironcore murmuring translation to her students around Beln.

"A pleasure, Mr. Grey. Uh- can I ask?"

"I'm asking too," said Vedenrith, still wearing a look of wary bafflement which Ilsa thought quite becoming on his gaunt features.

"The short version or the long version?" said the Warlock.

"Short version, please," said Ironcore, still translating for her students and Samoj.

"Short version, then. We knew each other before the Scourge. Ved is clueless. I was shy. He died. I was devastated. And then-"

Really, it was an evening built on surprises and interruptions so someone should have seen it coming but everyone in the tavern jumped when the door was slammed open so hard the top hinge shattered and rattled to the floor. Framed in the falling darkness was a bear.

Clearly it was not just a bear, but a shapeshifted Druid. For a moment the building was still and staring as the creature swayed there on the stoop. Blood matted its fur at the throat and shoulders, a dribbled sluggishly from both ears. Its breath whined out in gasps over its lolling tongue.

Khemat was on her feet instantly, soft green light curling between her fingers. There was a screech of wood and the Ironcore's Paladin student stood up, worry creasing her lovely features as she spun a halo of gold light. She nodded to Khemat and they moved together towards the wounded creature. The bear collapsed. Druid and Paladin knelt beside the beast-form, healing spells working in tandem.

Everyone was on their feet now, craning to see better what was going on and murmuring questions back and forth.

The flickering, swirling magic melted into the bear's fur and Khemat and Tologrin stood back, keeping other patrons at bay with furious shooing gestures.

The bear transformed. Ilsa had never seen Ironcore do it and she winced as the change worked its way slowly through the Druid. She looked askance at the two Taurens and saw how appalled they were. This was clearly _not_ how shape-shifting was supposed to happen.

"Oh no!" choked Beln and rushed forward, shouldering his way past Tologrin with ease. "_Tialla?_"

"Tialla?!"

"Medarion's girlfriend?"

"Who?"

"Tialla," said Beln, pulling the shivering Night Elf to her knees. Ilsa tugged her cloak off and stumbled through the crowd, offering it to the other woman. She was betting Druids didn't usually end up naked when they changed form. Tialla clutched the cloak around her shoulders, shaking so hard her teeth were chattering. Her long white hair was ragged and filthy. Cuts and bruises were still fading on her rosy skin.

"What's wrong?" said Beln gently. "Where's Medarion? Where's Pelcyr?"

The Night Elf wailed, raising her fists in front of her face as if to strike Beln. He caught them both with one hand and shushed her.

"They're gone," she whispered and then thrashed with a fury and vigour that landed Beln on his tail. She stood up in a rush, muscles taut, eyes wild. "They're GONE!" she screamed. Beln got up slowly, looking from Tialla to Khemat to Ilsa and finally to Ironcore.

"Gone… where? How?" he asked her.

Tialla drew a sobbing breath and suddenly seemed to realize where she was and who she was with. She looked away from Beln and Ilsa, eyes bouncing from face to face until she too found Ironcore. Then her strength crumbled. Beln and Ilsa caught her before she could collapse a second time but she gripped their arms with a desperate strength. She managed to catch her breath and steady herself long enough to meet the black Druid's eyes.

"Pelcyr's dead. Medarion's been kidnapped by the Burning Legion."

***

**I love me some cliffhanger. ;)**


	14. Through the Dark Portal

A/N : Whew, this is a LONG chapter! The story's over 100 pages now in Word. Here's to quantity. ;) Anyway, onwards: in which Beln's armour gets some dents, I wish _my_ PUGs went this smoothly, everyone gets some answers (except Vedenrith), and Ironcore dishes out the Druid supremacy. Also, it has been pointed out that I've been calling the Dark Portal the 'Black Gate'. Sorry. They're going to Outlands, not Mordor. ;)

**Chapter 14 – Through the Dark Portal**

There was a collective gasp from everyone who spoke Common, echoed a moment later by those Ironcore was translating for. Then the room exploded with questions and pleas and denials. Over the din, the innkeeper hollered, "Okay! All of you? OUT!!"

They took their drama dockside. A few puzzled tavern-goers followed them, curious about the naked elf and the diverse group worrying over her.

Beln and Ilsa were still carrying Tialla. Khemat bustled to her, crooning in Taura-he and unclasping part of her kilt. Ilsa was momentarily preoccupied wondering why a race with fur would wear more than one layer, then shook her head and returned to the moment.

"Pelcyr… is dead?" whispered Beln. He'd sat down beside the Night Elf at the edge of the plank walkway in a daze and was staring blearily up at Ilsa.

"She can't be," said the huntress firmly. "Pel's too smart. Too fast. And Medarion would never let her…"

Tialla choked on her voice and clutched at Ilsa's hand. "She gave her life to save her brother. And I couldn't- couldn't keep them from _taking_ him!"

"Why's da Burning Legion wan' a Night Elf?" Samoj asked Ironcore.

"Medarion's a mage," she said.

"Naw, he a Night Elf."

"Night Elf mage," said Khemat softly. "The poor man."

Ironcore turned to Tialla and crouched before her, meeting the woman's haunted gaze. "Where did they take him?" she asked. Tialla shook her head.

"I don't know. They… he was… I fought them! There were so many of them and I fought them, I _fought_ and I don't know where he went. I just…"

"I can think of one place they would go," said Aetos. He spoke Orcish, slightly accented and smoother than it was meant to be. Samoj stooped down to the human's level and cocked his head.

"You know?"

"I can guess. Educated guess."

"Where?" asked Ironcore.

"Ironcore," began Khemat, resting a hand on her friend's shoulder. The black Druid turned to her. "Slow down."

"The Throne of Kil'jaeden," said Aetos. "It's the seat of power in Outlands and closest to the portal."

"Is Medarion that important to them?"

"I don't know, I've never met the man. But if they kidnapped him, obviously they see some worth in him or they would have simply killed him."

"What're they saying?" Ilsa asked, peering at Beln. He shook his head.

"I can only understand bits and pieces. Ironcore keeps asking 'where'."

"And the Throne is the only place they would take him? There's nowhere on Azeroth that he might be held?"

Aetos spread his hands. "Most of their strongholds on Azeroth have been significantly weakened in the last few years. It depends on who exactly got ahold of him. If it was just some local battalion captain, he might still be on Azeroth. But even local captains want to get promoted and if he was worth keeping alive, he was worth passing up to a higher position. My best guess is Outlands."

Ironcore looked around her. Khemat was her equal in power, though they expressed it differently. Aetos, if he were partnered with Khemat, would be no less skilled than she. Vedenrith was almost good enough one-handed to best Ironcore and he had the runes to back him up if brute strength failed. And then there was Samoj…

"Are yoo tinking what I am tinking?" asked the Troll, eyeing his friend.

"Probably," replied Ironcore. "The five of us might be able to sneak in and break him out as long as they don't come on us in numbers."

"Five?" said Beln awkwardly in Orcish. Ironcore, Samoj, Khemat and Aetos all turned to him. He looked from one to the other uncertainly. "You go, I go," he said. "Ilsa go also." He pointed to Tologrin. "Healer go." Tologrin narrowed her eyes at him.

"Me? I'm not going into some place _they're_ afraid of entering to rescue a _Night Elf_."

Beln snorted. "Blood Elf scared," he said dismissively and looked over to Vedenrith, switching to Common. "You're coming, right?"

"Coming where?" said the Death Knight, looking from Beln to the cabal of plotters.

"Throne of Kil'jaeden," he said. "Your friend says that's where they've probably taken Medarion."

"I'm coming," growled Tialla and staggered to her feet. Her eyes glowed like coiled lightning. "I'll tear that place to pieces!" Khemat petted her arm gently, green wisps flaring from the ends of her fingers in soothing curls.

"Yes," replied Vedenrith, eyes widening. "Of course. I owe Pelcyr my life. If I can do anything for her brother, I will. I am with you."

"Beln," said Ironcore gently, "You and Ilsa can't come with us. You'll be destroyed. It's dangerous for me to be there-"

"But you're still going. And Vedenrith's going, even though he's never beaten you in a duel. Who else do you have wearing platemail? You _need_ someone to take those big hits and keep them distracted while you kick the hell out of them. I don't see Khemat in plate, or Aetos, or Samoj. You're going to let Vedenrith be your only shield? No offense of course, Ved."

The Death Knight shook his head. "None taken. I agree. Beln should come. Have you seen him fight lately Ironcore?"

"No, I haven't."

"He's getting very good."

The lovers stared at each other. "Okay. What about Ilsa?"

"I'm coming. Pelcyr is- was- a good friend. Medarion needs us." She whistled and there was a pattering of paws on the wooden dock. "They mess with the rose- they get the thorns," she said with a grim smile and scratched the hyena behind the ears.

"I'm coming too."

Ironcore, Samoj and Khemat turned to see Marley standing on the pier behind them, ragged lips set in a frown, hands fisted on the hilts of his knives.

"Marley?!" said Tologrin in shock. "Are you crazy? They're chasing a _Night Elf_!"

"The Burning Legion is the cause of the Scourge, Tologrin. If this Medarion is powerful enough to attract their attention, I don't want to know what kind of tool they'd turn him into. They are _evil_ beyond… beyond faction."

Ironcore was literally struck speechless. The little Rogue stared at the dock, greenish hair falling across his face.

"Good Forsaken!" whooped Beln and got up, putting his hand out for Marley. The Rogue looked up at the Draenei without enthusiasm and ignored to proferred handshake.

"I don't know how much Orcish you understand, but this doesn't make me your friend, warrior." He glanced at his teacher. "And Ironcore is wasted on you."

Beln planted his fists on his hips and loomed over the scrawny Forsaken. "Draenei girl say same thing about her," he rumbled, "You both wrong."

"Are you insane?" Tologrin continued, waving her hands in front of her erstwhile rival. "You're going to get killed in there over some stupid Night Elf! What's wrong with you?"

Marley snorted. "I think the blue guy's right. You are scared."

"I'm not scared, I'm smart! I have a sense of self-preservation!"

"You have chosen the Holy path in your Paladin training, have you not?" said Khemat thoughtfully. Tologrin tossed her head.

"Yes."

"You should come. We could use another true healer."

"Why are you going? You don't even know this guy!"

"Neither does Marley," said Khemat. "I'm going for the reason he is- and because Ironcore is my friend and if she deems him worth rescuing, then I agree with her."

"He don' deserve what they gonna do to heem," said Samoj despondently. Then he brightened. "Plus, I ain't been in a good scrap fer a while."

Tologrin stared at the group. They were united, _united_ for a common cause, for the life of one man half of them had never met. This wasn't what she had envisioned upon choosing to take up arms. She had dreamt of heroic battles, lead by men and women with legendary names, with flags and bugles and clearly defined sides. They were going to do this without flags, without fanfare, without anyone save a handful of nobodies left behind to remember them if they didn't return. For one man.

"One stupid Night Elf," she said, shaking her head.

"If it hadn't been for one stupid Night Elf, most of us would never have met," said Ironcore quietly. Samoj touched her arm.

"Naw, you wrong. Hadn't been for one stupid Tauren, most of us wouldna ever met."

***

Medarion hurt. His hands were numb from the ropes bound too tightly around his wrists. His feet were numb and everytime the cart hit a pothole or a pebble and jostled him, his ankles smacked together. The gag in his mouth tasted like blood and he knew it wasn't all his. They had tied a roughspun sack over his head as much to keep him disoriented as to allay their fears that mages might be able to cast spells with just their eyes. And on top of the injuries he had incurred during the desperate struggle, they'd beaten him within an inch of life to keep him out of it.

Everything was a blur of pain and disjointed images he couldn't lay down in any coherent order. He thought Tialla had escaped- he did remember yelling over and over for her to run as he wrung himself empty of magic until he was shaking and vomiting and bleeding from his nose. He thought he remembered Pelcyr lying on the ground between his feet, eyes glassy, cheeks cooling but fingers still moving and a rain of gold that fed him and healed him and strengthened him and then…

And then what had happened?

_Where is my sister?_

He stretched out his legs, slowly, carefully, inching forward and biting into the gag when the pain in his joints creaked and flared. They had taken his boots and he fumbled across the floorboards of the cart with senseless toes, searching for _anything_. There was another bump and he was thrown onto his elbows. Medarion lay back, breathing raggedly through the cloth in his mouth and covering his face. He had no weapon. He didn't even have boots. He was fairly certain he had more ribs fractured than intact and now that he thought about it, his left ankle seemed more painful than the right. So too with his hands.

With some difficulty, Medarion raised his hands in front of his face and pressed them against the sack. Through it, he could feel the shape of his fingers, twisted together in a jumble of ridges and valleys. The sackcloth didn't catch on anything that might have been broken bone and everything felt fairly normal, though strained.

"What are you doing, mage?" said a voice above him. Medarion grunted. "Right. The gag."

"Looks like he's trying to scratch himself," said a second voice, a bit deeper and more apathetic.

Medarion growled. _Where is my sister!_

"Not very feisty now, is he?"

"You wouldn't be feisty with a broken foot and a concussion either. Don't under estimate him."

"He's got no weapons."

"Fool! He _is_ a weapon."

Medarion managed to work his tongue over the top of the gag and wrestled it down until it was wrapped around his bottom teeth.

"_Hare ish ny shishter?_"

"Dammit!! He got the gag off!"

"Hit him."

Medarion couldn't even prepare for the blow and flopped dully against the floor, out cold again.

***

"One day for preparations," said Khemat. "Your best weapons, your best armour, your fastest mount. We will go in small groups. No one must think we are anything but regular adventurers."

"Unless the Burning Legion have secretly opened another path into Outlands, they will have taken him through the Dark Portal," Aetos elaborated and turned to the Night Elf Druid, shivering in her borrowed skirt and shawl, "Tialla, how many days did it take you to get here?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. I was in agony. I cannot remember. Six? Four? No more than six."

Aetos stroked the scrap of goatee adorning his chin. "They'll be through then, but not far from the portal itself. If we could send a scout ahead, right now, and find out how far they have to go… perhaps we won't have to face them at the Throne of Kil'jaeden. Perhaps we can fight them on open ground if we muster quickly."

"I'll do it," said Ilsa immediately. "I'm good at hiding."

Khemat and Ironcore had a hurried conversation.

"You want to send a _hunter_ to spy on the enemy?" said Marley indignantly when he realized the topic. "I am the obvious choice for this mission."

"I will loan you my mount," said Vedenrith, nodding to Ilsa. She swallowed audibly. "She is faster than your horse."

"Y-yeah, okay," she said and composed herself.

"Ilsa will be faster on Vedenrith's horse," said Ironcore to Marley.

"Then loan me a steed!" he begged. "This isn't a job for a hunter. This requires stealth. This is my domain!"

Ironcore and Khemat turned away, muttering together in Taura-he. "Ilsa, Marley will be our scout. He makes a good argument." Ironcore reached out a hand to her student. "Marley, I will loan you my wolf. He's fast and silent and will fight at your side if you encounter trouble. Get your things, now. Return here as fast as you can. We will gather provisions."

The group dispersed in twos and threes, leaving Marley and Ilsa standing an arms length from each other. Marley frowned, incapable of speaking his mind to the human woman. She hesitated a moment and then gave him a nod and, to his surprise, a salute. Then she trotted after the Death Knight.

Marley rode through the jungle without seeing it. Once or twice something growled or lunged towards him but he ignored the attempts and hurtled onwards, concentrating on the hollow rhythm of his skeletal horses' hooves.

_I think I am doing the right thing_, he thought with more conviction than he felt. _It doesn't matter that this Medarion is a Night Elf. He's a mage powerful enough to catch the eye of the Burning Legion. I have the chance to stop them from making more misery before they can start. Volunteering to fight and take that away… is not treason._

He ducked a low-hanging vine.

_Ironcore's relationship with the Draenei… _that_ is treason._

***

Ironcore had two mounts at Grom'gol. One was the Orcish riding wolf that she had loaned to Marley. The other was a surly, beady-eyed Kodo cow roughly the same size as the tent Ironcore had her alchemy lab in.

"If I knew I was gonna hafta ride _dat_, I wouldna said I'd com," whined Samoj.

"You didn't come to Grom'gol with a mount, Samoj," said Ironcore, rolling her eyes.

"I didn' know dis visit was gonna turn inta som kinda heroic thingy. Or else I woulda. If dat thing bites me, I'll-"

"If you don't go poking her with your dagger like you're measuring a cut of meat, she won't bite you. Well, maybe."

"I'm tellin' you, we run outta food doin' this, she gonna be stew. Lotsa stew."

"Samoj…"

The Troll gave the Kodo one final glare and slouched over to where his friend was sorting supplies.

"If I call Jashi, she probably com," he said quietly. The Druid sighed.

"No time," she said with obvious regret. "Marley should make it through the Gate before sunrise. Beln and Vedenrith are leaving in two hours. You and I will be following as soon as they're out of sight." This was what they had planned- small groups, each separate, each keeping to their own faction so as not to arouse suspicion or appear memorable, riding into Outlands to regroup in the No Man's Land between the Stair of Destiny and the rest of Hellfire Peninsula. Khemat and Ironcore would take to the sky in their bird forms and bring the members together. Marley would hopefully have some information for them by then and would be watching for the two circling Druids.

"I'm glad you're here," said Ironcore honestly and paused buckling the saddlebag in her hands. Samoj spread his hands and shimmied his hips with a grin.

"Hey, I'm hopin' dat sister elf ain't dead," he said and licked his lips. Ironcore's shoulders sank.

"So am I. I mean… i-it's not the first time someone's thought someone was dead and they weren't. Right? Tialla didn't say anything about it. I didn't want to ask but… you saw her. Maybe she was too enraged or too injured to see Pelcyr escape, or get up, or… something." The Troll crossed to his friend and looped his arms around her shoulders.

"Yeah. Ain't da first time. Com. We got stupid Kodo to saddle."

"Right."

The Kodo did try to bite Samoj but it was a half-hearted attempt and he let it go with only a handful of threats and an indignant screech. They left Grom'gol in the darkest hour of night riding double and struck out through Stranglethorn. An hour's ride had brought them within sight of Beln and Vedenrith and Ironcore reined the Kodo to a halt until the pair had disappeared through the narrow gap into Deadwind Pass.

"Yoo know, I just had a thought. We never done any fightin' with most o' dese people. Khemat, sure. She save my life lots, back in da day. Da others?" Samoj shook his head. "I feel dis would go bettah if we had a couple more bodies we knew."

"I know Beln. We made a pretty good team in Tanaris."

The Troll snickered, but declined to comment beyond a nod.

"You're right though," Ironcore said quietly. "We aren't a _team_, we're just a group. Beln and Vedenrith barely know each other and they're supposed to run tandem interference for us. Marley's as like to stab Medarion as he is to save him." She shifted in the saddle to look at Samoj. "Which is why I am ever so glad, again, that you are here."

"I always got yer back, Kafa," he grinned.

"I am always glad of that."

The Shaman dusted his knuckles against his chest in faux modesty. "An' always happy to be showin' da young 'uns why ya should listen to ya elders." Ironcore flicked an ear at a crunch from somewhere behind them and called up her lion's eyes to peer through the darkness. Khemat and Tologrin were pretending to consult a scroll by the side of the road.

"Let's get moving," she said.

Two hours later found them passing silently through the devastated wasteland that surrounded the Dark Portal. During the day the place sweltered with unnatural heat and Ironcore was glad they were traversing the Blasted Lands at night when it was markedly cooler. Dual points of light glowed briefly under the moons' light, disembodied eyes of nocturnal predators sizing up the kodo and its riders. Nothing approached the pair.

Too soon, the portal loomed before them. The kodo balked at the top of the crater, tugging her head sideways anxiously. Ironcore patted her shoulder and murmured comforting sounds to the beast.

"Here we are again," she whispered to Samoj. The Troll shifted behind her, firming up his grip on the saddle.

"Let's get dis ovah with," he replied, narrowing his eyes.

***

"Don't be embarrassed," said Aetos cheerfully, "It was a very human reaction." He leaned closer to Ilsa, who was still bent over, retching, one hand shakily supporting her on a boulder. "Probably did the same thing myself the first time through." Thorns whined and nudged her companion, worried.

"Ugh," said the huntress, wiping her mouth and surrendering to the fact that she simply had zero luck looking cool in front of the handsome Warlock. "Somehow, I can't imagine that. Doesn't your- your communion with the darker, uh, stuff save you from that kind of thing?"

To her further chagrin, he patted her head and chortled. "Oh no. Demon magic isn't pleasant but it's not enough to make you throw up. Usually. It's the teleporting that does it. Moving all your matter from one point to another so distant shocks your body into instant panic. It thinks you're being dissembled permanently."

"Ugh," she repeated. Aetos offered her a waterskin and she took it thankfully, rinsing her mouth and then taking a small sip. They had charged through the portal, tumbled out the other side and only Ilsa's utter fear and awe of the turmoil that instantly enveloped them had kept her from getting sick right away. There was a battle mere _steps_ from the Dark Portal! She'd only caught a glimpse before the Warlock had grabbed her gelding's reins and lead them away at a gallop. She thought she saw Night Elven archers shoulder to shoulder with Troll axe-throwers, and the Stormwind colours rent and trampled under the hooves and claws of nameless horror alongside the scarlet Horde penant.

She shuddered.

"They're so close," she whispered. Aetos had circled the madness and brought them stealthily through the devastated landscape to a relatively unoccupied point in the middle of nowhere. She guessed this was where they needed to be and the aimless demons she saw from the corner of her eye were giving Aetos a respective berth.

"So close, yet so far," replied the Warlock. "They've never gotten through the portal."

"But they're _right there_."

"Which is actually millions of leagues away from Azeroth. You know, you can actually see Azeroth from the Black Temple…"

"You've been in the Black Temple?" she said, aghast.

"More like outside on the ramparts. But on a clear night you can see our world. Very nice. A little distracting."

"It doesn't seem like a good place to get… distracted… Aetos, what is that?" Ilsa squinted into the gloom. It had been night, almost morning, when they left Azeroth and it was evening here already. Ilsa felt like she had lost a day. _Or simply had a night with no dawn._

The Warlock followed her gesture. Something dark dipped and shivered on the horizon.

"I don't know. People. It's too far away. Don't you have the ability-"

"I'm using it. I see… humans and Orcs? Together? Red Orcs."

"Fel Orcs. Burning Legion's pets."

"Well they seem to be working together. Some kind of caravan."

"Odd place for it. There's other roads…" He fell silent, then craned his neck and began madly scanning the sky. "Find the Druids!" he hissed urgently. Ilsa strained her eyes trying to pick out something bird-like in the shifting clouds. There were things flying up there, but none of them looked like…

"There! Look! Is that one of them?" she stabbed her finger into the night. Something huge soared above them. Beside her, Aetos squinted.

"Looks about the right size." He put his fingers in his mouth and made a shrill whistle. The shape Ilsa was watching didn't react but another slid into view, a lighter colour than the first, clearly heading towards them. Then both of the fliers wheeled about and stooped.

The closer they came, the bigger they got. The two Druids hurtled earthward, side-by-side, massive wings folded against their bodies, hooked beaks cleaving the wind like icebreakers. The dive ended abruptly when the pair opened their wings, fanned their tails and threw out their talons, buffeting Ilsa and Aetos with the backwash. Ilsa briefly wondered at the fact she was finally taller Ironcore and then realized avian-Ironcore was looking her in the _chest._

"Wow. Big bird."

Khemat resumed her Tauren form immediately, shaking herself as her raptorial appearance receded. The change was swift and fluid, very different from the twitching, straining agony Ilsa had seen Tialla go through in the tavern the night before.

"Look," said Aetos without preamble, pointing to the caravan on the horizon. "If that's the bastards what took your elf-"

He didn't finish. Ironcore, still in bird form, took a heavy running start and beat her wings furiously to rise, deep down-strokes propelling her away. Khemat turned to them.

"She will find out. I will find the others. Stay here!" And then she was gone, rising into the night, a little more pale and a little more sleek than Ironcore, but just as determined.

Ilsa caught herself holding her breath. There was nothing to do now but fidget and check her bow-string and loosen her sword in its sheath again and again. Aetos put a hand on hers.

"Sh," he said. "Don't waste your energy being nervous."

"I can't help it," she hissed back. Thorns was picking up her companion's nerves and pacing hither and thither, haunches tucked, lips curled, giving a little chuckle of anxiety at each turn.

"Try not to think of anything. I like to pick a spot to stare at and concentrate on it. Break it down. What colours. How far away. How hot. How cold. What the rocks feel like."

Ilsa's gaze swung wildly from one end of the vista to the other but all she could focus on was the tiny figures so far away and the dark speck driving toward them through the darkening air.

"So what is it with you and Vedenrith?" asked Aetos suddenly. Ilsa blinked.

"Huh?"

"Are you… lovers?"

Ilsa managed to choke on her own spit at that and coughed once, surprised. "What? No! Uh, no. Definite _no_, definitely-" she stopped mid-awkwardness and met Aetos' eye. "Not that he's not- um- and I don't- or, well I didn't- I mean wouldn't- I never thought- seriously, what kind of question is that?"

The man was snickering and it was then that Ilsa remembered most people thought Warlocks had a spark of evil in them. She was tending to agree.

"Are you asking me because you're curious or because I look like competition?" she challenged. Aetos' perfect dark eyebrows shot up and he opened his mouth, then closed it with a little sigh.

"They're not mutually exclusive questions, are they?"

"What is it with _you_ and Vedenrith?" she countered.

"Tried to tell you before. We knew each other _before_. Then he died."

"And?"

"And it took me a long time accept his death and not feel guilty about it. Heard a rumour he wasn't _dead_ persay. Tore me up even worse than him being really dead. Terrified I'd meet him and he'd be… not himself. Then the King pardoned the Knights of the Ebon Blade and I…" He pinched his lips together in a terse line. "I forgot about him. Until last night."

"How could you-"

"It was safer."

"But-"

"I said safer, not smarter."

"So what's the deal then? You were friends before? Or _comrades in arms_, so to speak?" she said and winked broadly. Aetos made a tight little grin. "Wait- was he a Warlock too?"

Aetos shook his head. "No, Vedenrith was a priest."

"Holy shit," said Ilsa, shocked and impressed. "That's kind of… a change, isn't it?"

The Warlock nodded. "I imagine it was."

"But he's so _good_ with the sword, I just thought he was… a warrior or something. Before."

"Nope. Priest. Shadow priest, but still a priest."

"And you two...?"

Aetos growled, playfully antagonized, and the sound made Ilsa blush again. "He helped the Circle with a campaign at one point, that was how we met. Convinced him to stick around for a while. Fell in love with him." He paused and looked away. "You're not so young that you haven't had your heart broken, I'm guessing." Then he looked her up and down as though seeing her for the first time. "Probably done your share of heart-breaking."

Ilsa's blush deepened until she was sure it was visible in the dark.

"So he turned you down?" she prodded, smoothing her hair back in an attempt to cool the burning at her hairline and ears.

"No," said Aetos. "Never had the chance to ask. And he was _so bloody clueless_!"

"That sounds like Vedenrith," she said ruefully. Then an idea struck her. "Is that his actual name? I thought it might be some Death Knight thing, or a surname or something."

"It's the only name I knew him by. It is odd, now that you mention- there's Khemat."

And they were off, trotting across the harsh sand towards the hawk, spiraling lower and lower in the black sky. When she landed, she lit a small lantern and waited with the buttery light painting her white fur gold. Out of the darkness, Ilsa saw other figures emerging. Samoj and Tologrin appeared side-by-side, the Shaman completely at ease, the Paladin walking stiffly, looking perhaps a little more pale than usual. Beln and Vedenrith rode up, both wearing a determined set to their jaws. Tialla followed them a moment later, prowling silently in her panther form. From the opposite direction came the soft pad of wolfpaws and Marley, out of breath and grimy, joined the circle. There was a sudden wind and whisper of feathers and then Ironcore reared up from her nearly invisible bird form.

"It's them," she said. "Marley followed them for a while to make sure. The caravan Ilsa spotted is the same one. They have Medarion. And they're not close enough to the Throne of Kil'jaeden to make a run for it if we attack them."

A surge of grim hope went through the group.

"There's no one around to help them," put in the Rogue, exposing his teeth in a wolfish grin.

"How many?" said Samoj. Ironcore rolled her shoulders and blew out a breath.

"A lot."

"At least sixty," Marley elaborated. "There's three wagons, with at least six guards each inside, plus a driver. There are four groups of outriders, with seven soldiers each. Two groups of five foot-soldiers with chainmail and swords. And one Orc in robes, a Shaman or a Warlock."

Samoj spat. "Dat's a lot."

"A lot? That's a small _army_!" snapped Tologrin. "Why do they care about this elf so much?!"

"We'll split into two groups," said Ironcore firmly. "Beln, Khemat, Tialla and myself in one. Vedenrith, Tologrin, Aetos, Ilsa and Marley in the other. Vedenrith, your group will attack their leader, the fellow in the robes. Beln, our group will attack the last wagon, furthest from their leader. We're going to split their forces in half. Samoj-"

"Ye-es?"

"I want you in the middle."

"Oh _tank_ you, I love you too."

"Keep the groups separate. Keep them confused."

"They have a _lot_ of mounted soldiers," said Marley. He looked quickly from Tologrin to Ironcore.

"Follow your leader- Beln, Vedenrith, it's your job to plow through to your targets. Everyone else, do as much damage as you can to help them out. Tologrin, I know you don't like Vedenrith, or his people, or his faction but it's your job to heal him and keep him standing."

The Paladin swallowed and chanced a glance at the Death Knight. He nodded solemly to her.

"I can do that," she said evenly.

"We'll go in as fast as we can but the second you think you can hit something, do it. The more of them we can take down before they start fighting back, the better, even if it gives away the element of surprise."

***

An especially sharp jolt brought Medarion back to consciousness. He keened into the gag that was still wrapped around his lower teeth, stuck to his lips, head throbbing with the effects of the blow that had knocked him out. _Oh Elune, it hurts!_ He was stretched full length on his back now, shuddered down to the floor by the action of the moving cart. At first, he just lay there, concentrating on his breath bubbling out between newly crooked teeth. He couldn't breathe through his nose. _Probably broken._ Inside the sack, he couldn't see a thing, not even a hint of light. _It must be night_. Something felt different though, something about the way his body lay against the floor. Not painfully different, just… different. Like he was just that much lighter. _Concussion_, he remembered, _if I sit up too fast, I'll probably black out._

Aware of that fact, Medarion worked himself slowly into a sitting position, inching back on his elbows until his shoulder blades touched the wall of the wagon. Carefully, in minute movements, he pushed himself up the wall using his right heel. His left foot ached and twinged and he couldn't put any of his weight on it. He rested a moment, listening to the rhythm of his breathing again. His heart was pounding, both from exertion and fear. _I must be careful._

Although his kidnappers had bound his wrists and ankles, they hadn't thought to tie the bonds together, which left the Night Elf more elated than he had felt since the ambush and battle. He felt about his throat until he found the tie on the sack over his head and worked it patiently with numb fingers until it loosened. He paused, trying to discern where his captors were. Perhaps they were waiting until he got the bag off to clobber him again, just to see the look on his face. He could hear the creak of leather armour shifting in time to the rocking of the cart and the rough scrape of scabbards or bow ends against the cart. _They must be looking the other way_, he thought with relief. He had to stay absolutely silent. And he had to get the bag off fast.

Medarion pulled the sack over his head. He reached back and clumsily freed his hair, blinking at the night. He could barely see any better now than he could before! But they weren't called Night Elves for nothing and despite the Orcs apparent bestial nature, he could definitely see more than they could in the darkness.

The end of the cart was open, four stocky bodies sitting side-by-side on the running board. Medarion turned his head a fraction the other direction. One man- _human_ man!- with the reins in his hands, driving, and an Orc beside him with thick fists and a round shield. _Okay,_ he thought, _ now what?_

***

The group slunk soundlessly through the night, quietly flanking the caravan. Vedenrith dismounted, shoving his mare gently away from the future combat zone. Beside him, Ilsa nocked an arrow without so much as a creak and sighted down the shaft. Aetos stood silent, one hand going through some complex motion as he summoned. The two Horde were arrayed to either side, Marley already in a loaded crouch, creeping forward on the edges of his feet, while Tologrin stretched her fingers and looked painfully nervous.

Vedenrith gestured, catching their eyes, and waited.

Beln's heart was thundering in his chest. He couldn't believe they hadn't been noticed. He couldn't believe that he was about to charge, out-numbered six to one. The brief fantasy he'd had months ago- himself in magnificent armour, Ironcore rampant with fire in her eyes- seemed very, very close. He swallowed. Suddenly she was there at his hip, as if a part of the night itself had coalesced.

"I am here beside you," she murmured, so close to his ear that her lips caressed his jaw for a moment. Beln smiled and the fantasy blazed in his mind's eye. He peered behind him. Khemat nodded, gripping her staff in both hands. Tialla was already in her panther form, breath misting between deadly fangs in the cool air. _It's like I attract Druids_, he thought with amusement.

Then he faced forward and assessed his potential targets. The last cart had three obvious guards, with two more shadowy figures inside and a driver. To the right walked one of the groups of foot soldiers, five in all. To the left and a little forward rode six more. He could see another mounted group beyond the foot soldiers. They would be surrounded in an instant.

On the back of the wagon, one of the guards shifted and Beln squinted. He was holding something, toying with it boredly. It looked small and flimsy in his hands, but Beln recognized it. _Pelcyr's wand._ His eyes narrowed.

"_For Azeroooooth!!_" he roared and bounded forward, eyes locked onto the Orc holding his friend's weapon.

Perhaps the caravan thought he was alone, as he had given no indication to charge and the others startled to action moments behind him. Perhaps they'd thought he was going to turn away when he realized the odds. Perhaps they were just surprised.

Beln's first swing cut the Orc holding the wand from shoulder to waist and he didn't stop, just let the momentum carry him in a full circle, catching the man to his right under the chin and lifting him up with the tip of the sword. He leaned into a second rotation and smashed the pommel into the up-raised face of the Orc to his left. They knew he was here now. He shifted his shield forward on his arm and firmed up his grip on the hilt of his sword.

Beln slid sideways, catching a mace across hips- no pain there, the platemail bounced the weapon back in its owners hands- blocked a dagger aimed for his eye with his shield and drove his sword forward through the chest of the dagger's owner.

There was a breaking snarl behind him and then Tialla, hackles on end, lips peeled back from frightfully long teeth, bore a man to the ground amidst gurgling shrieks and the scrape of claws raking leather armour. Green hazed around his chest and he thought he heard Khemat through the ruckus, chanting.

A familiar pillar of light smashed down and Beln took a blow to the shoulder as the mounted group came in. Instead of recoiling, he lunged forward into the soldier's second strike and hammered him sideways with the hilt. Stunned, he slipped from his wolf and green fire blossomed around him.

The caravan had realized it was under attack in mere seconds. As their attention turned to the building cacophony of steel and screaming and fury in the rear, Vedenrith sprinted across the sand and launched himself at the Orc in robes. The man turned and- _Warlock_, he thought as the man's Doomguard companion reared up and slapped Vedenrith sideways. The Death Knight hit the ground hard and rolled, coming up to see the winged beast stomping towards him. Behind the Doomguard he saw a furry missile hurtle between the leader's guards and slam into the Orc. An arrow followed the hyena, thudding solidly into one of the advancing foot soliders, bringing the man to his knees. Twin daggers finished him off and Marley twisted away, fast and lithe.

Vedenrith caught the Doomguard's weapon on his own, turned his grip and parried the demon's sword wide. It clearly expected him to come at it again and hurriedly brought its guard back around to the front, but Vedenrith had other plans. The temperature suddenly dropped and a maze of filigree-thin ice suddenly skittered across the beast's wings. Frigid wind clogged its throat. Vedenrith's sword smashed into the back of its knees and the demon staggered. The Death Knight gave it a passing kick and pounced on his original target with renewed fervor.

Thorns had closed her teeth on the Warlock's shoulder, dangerously close to his neck and stubbournly hung on despite the patches of fur already on fire. Her powerful jaws had broken his collar bone. Vedenrith whirled his sword in a circle, catching an incoming rider across the back of his thigh and ending with the tip of the sword buried in the enemy Warlock's ribs. It wasn't enough to kill him but it was enough to make him howl with outrage. Thorns let go, bouncing stiff-legged out of reach. Vedenrith got in one good crack across the Orc's jaw before the Doomguard was on him again and a sudden, clenching agony crushed him in its grasp, the Warlock chanting through bleeding lips.

Aetos saw the curse take effect and the Death Knight writhe back from the Orc with a garbled scream. Frowning, he pointed and sent his Felguard minion in to keep the Doomguard off Vedenrith. Then he narrowed his eyes and sent his own barrage of curses at the other Warlock.

Samoj cracked his knuckles. _Here goes nothing_. He strolled out of the darkness toward the gap appearing between fights, just where Ironcore wanted him. Two groups of mounted fighters bore down on each end of the battle. The ten foot soliders had divided themselves evenly and the only difference in strength that he could see was Beln's group having four members rather than Vedenrith's five. _Heh. They be fine._

Almost casually, he set up his totems, eyeing the distance between himself and his friends to determine where their influence would bring the greatest advantage. The guards in the wagon he was approaching- the middle wagon- seemed torn between aiding their comrades at the front or back of the train or combating this new threat and it was only this that had kept them there since the battle's beginning.

Samoj drew a cruel, recurved dagger from behind his back with one hand and, making sure he had their attention, reached with the other to withdraw a feathered, beaded axe whose very presence dripped abject mayhem. He walked toward them with one weapon in each hand and a vicious smile stretching his lips.

And then, the middle wagon blew up.

The four indecisive guards were thrown in four different directions, their clothes aflame. Chunks of wood, shreds of canvas, bolts and links of chain exploded every which way and Samoj was forced to duck and cross his weapons before him as a shield. Fire towered up, lighting the melee and for a moment, everyone wavered in astonishment.

Then the fire shrank back into itself and the battle continued. The four guards were getting to their feet when Samoj happened upon them and there was a brief, but pitched skirmish. Samoj came out of it licking his lips. He looked into the cart with curiousity. What could they be carrying that would ignite with such potent fury?

In the bed of the wagon lay an unconscious male Night Elf.

"Medarion," grunted Samoj, nudging the mage's shoulder with a finger. "Hey, you do dat, mon? Dat be awesome!" A form threw itself out of the wrecked driver's seat onto Samoj, bearing the Troll to the ground. He thrashed and flailed with both weapons, feeling each of them catch but not dig in. Another assailant joined the first and Samoj snarled around his tusks in sneering annoyance.

There was blood running into Tialla's eyes, obscuring her vision. She ignored it. _Don't bite the guy in platemail_. She ranged near Beln, finishing off the fighters he wounded. One man tried to get around him, murder in his eyes and his gaze locked on Khemat or Ironcore. Beln sprang at him, forcing the fight to follow him, and Tialla leapt on a straggler, claws shearing the tendons in his legs, dragging him down to her scant mercy.

"We're doing better than expected," said Khemat, panting with concentration as she wound green mist around Beln again. Ironcore, in full Moonkin splendor, nodded her beaked face. "But nowhere near good enough. Beln's getting tired." He had four soldiers on him, plus two of their riding wolves. Tialla was rolling near him in a furious, blood-soaked brawl with another of the wolves, slashing and clawing. Three other soldiers had managed to get clear of them and were making their way towards the two Taurens. The tendons on Ironcore's taloned hands stood out starkly as her fingers stiffened and abruptly hooked. The curved claws shook and her eyes glowed. Above the group, a cloud was forming, churning and restless and speckled with light.

"Get back!" Khemat called in Common and both Beln and Tialla frantically moved in opposite directions. Lightning surged from sky to ground, illuminating the battle in jagged pulses. It thrummed through flesh and bone, scrambled along weapons, sang through every joint of armour.

Beln, unable to flee beyond the edge of the cloud, stared around him in wonder as the electricity coursed through every body but his. He could not spare a glance towards Ironcore but he could _feel_ her, joints creaking as she sought to direct the wild power. Her feathers smouldered, her neck cracked backwards and she stared up suddenly. An arc of lightning bounced from the sky to the ground to her talontips and out the back of her neck.

With a cry, she fell to her knees and lost the Moonkin form.

Beln and Tialla descended on the stunned, electrocuted fighters. Khemat hurried to her old friend's side.

"That was interesting."

"Ugh… Earthmother! Is that what that feels like?" Ironcore grimaced and stayed down, chest heaving as the white Druid laid gentle hands on her friends smoking armour.

"I have never seen a Druid pick targets while channeling the storm," Khemat said mildly.

"Beln was in there. Lightning doesn't have my discerning tastes. Ow."

Tologrin couldn't see Marley or the huntress' hyena. She stood beside Aetos, drawing soothing golden light down on Vedenrith. The Death Knight was hacking at a crowd of Orcs drawn up around their Warlock leader, spinning and lunging and parrying with a speed and intensity she had never seen him use in his sparring matches with Ironcore. His slender blade snickered through bone and a man, a _human_, collapsed, grabbing ineffectually at his wrist. A mace, a sword, an ax clattered off his platemail and Vedenrith hardly staggered. Tologrin bit her lip and cast again, closing cuts and easing bruises.

"Help!" That was Marley. Galvanized, Tologrin skittered a few steps away, on her tip-toes trying to see the Forsaken man. When she did, she gasped. They had gotten him down on the ground and he was fighting two of them on his back, kicking and lashing out with both blades. It was keeping them at bay but it wasn't gaining him any ground. He bucked sideways, jack-knifed between his foes and tried to get up. One of them stomped down on his shin.

Tologrin saw the bone break from where she stood. The Rogue wailed.

"Marley!" Tologrin charged into the fray, sword flying free of its sheath as she ran. An arrow, shot from very close range, obliterated the offender's right eye and took out the back of his skull. He toppled without a sound. His companion stepped back as the human huntress dropped her bow in favour of her short sword, tripped over Marley, and Tologrin skidded to a halt, watching in mixed amazement and repulsion as the red-haired woman jammed the sword into the fel Orc's armpit, bypassing his chainmail jerkin. She came up holding the bow, panting. Marley whimpered. Tologrin knelt beside him, although one look told her his leg was useless.

"Come on. I'll get you up. This needs major work." With only the slightest flinch of disgust she draped his arm over her shoulder and hauled him up onto his good foot. She turned her head, meaning to thank the huntress, however grudgingly, but the woman was too far away, aiming and firing with ferocious concentration.

"Ah gods," said Marley, raspy voice strangled with pain, "how did that happen?"

Tologrin shook her head. "Come sit beside me and the Warlock," she said. She couldn't afford to give him any more attention. She had to keep Vedenrith strong. Aetos took a moment from casting to glance at the injured Forsaken.

"Could've been worse," he said in his silky Orcish and then commenced raining fire on their enemies.

Samoj pulled his ax out of the human's back and took stock of the situation. The Rogue was sitting down beside the Blood Elf healer, breathing fast and shallow. He could hardly make out Vedenrith, fighting for his life in a tangle of fel Orcs. Beln was behaving more like a moveable shield for Tialla than a warrior, too tired now to expend more effort than raising his shield and squaring his stance to take hits. Tialla's black fur was slippery with red, but it was as much her blood as anyone else's. The Troll counted enemies and came up with too many. He sighed and climbed into the wagon with Medarion.

"Hey, Night Elf. Wake up, mon. C'mon, we got to get outta here." He found a relatively un-battered part of Medarion's cheek and pinched. "Heh, yer almost as cute as yer sister when yer sleepin'." Medarion's long eyelashes stirred and he looked up blearily. Then he blinked. His lip curled and he tried to scramble back, but was prevented by Samoj's strong fingers on his shoulders.

"Don' remember me, eh?" With a cocky grin, the Troll wound one of Medarion's long eyebrow-tips around his finger. Sudden recognition dawned on Medarion's face and he pulled away, frowning. "Ha ha, yeah, now you know who I be. C'mon den." Samoj hefted the elf into his arms and padded down the battlefield towards Ironcore.

"Look what I find!" he bellowed to the Moonkin. Ironcore's golden eyes widened. Khemat did a double take. The feathers and talons melted away and Ironcore straightened up. She was out of breath and bleeding from a cut over one eye.

"New strategy," she wheezed. "Get everybody to the centre. Samoj, give Medarion to Khemat." With a grunt, the black Druid dropped into her bear form and plowed into the fray, swinging her horns. Beln wondered for a moment why half his assailants had abruptly vanished and turned to see Ironcore batter one sideways with her head, then rear up, roaring and come down, crushing an Orc between her chest and the ground. Then she was Tauren again, panting, hand on her mace shaking with fatigue.

"Come on," she said and grabbed his wrist. "To the centre. Meet up with the others. Take 'em all out." Beln didn't argue. In an instant, she was a bear again, pushing her way through the fight. She swung her shoulder into the path of an ax-wielding Orc and the blade sank deeply into the muscle. With a bellow, she swatted the man aside and kept going. Beln got his hooves under him and struggled after her. _I should be leading! I can't let her take another hit like that!_ He shouldered his way past her, summoning his strength to throw off blows with his shield. Tialla followed in Ironcore's wake, ribs heaving in and out, tongue lolling. She was too exhausted to continue fighting, but her eyes still flashed with anger.

From the front of the battle, Vedenrith was pulling the enemy Warlock and his attendents along doggedly. The man was literally half Beln's size and he was still on his feet, thrusting his sword at anything that came too close, dancing out of the way of blows he couldn't deflect. The Draenei raised a hand in weary salute to the Death Knight. Between the knees of the combatants, Thorns snapped and gnawed, but she was limping badly from an arrow in the flank and her fur was burned in many places. Ilsa's quiver was empty.

"Yoo gonna wanna stand back," said Samoj to Beln, tugging at his elbow. He resisted at first. He had to stay with Ironcore. "De lady ken take care of herself. Com watch from back here," he insisted. Khemat was supporting Medarion on one hip and transferred him to Beln's grasp as gently as she could. The mage moaned quietly. Ilsa and Tologrin joined him and Tialla, Marley draped over their shoulders. None of them said anything.

Samoj and Ironcore had all but vanished into the fray, trying to regroup with Vedenrith. Aetos and Khemat stood, eyes narrowed, lips moving.

"Okay," said the Druid.

And the world seemed to turn itself inside out. Aetos Grey ceased to exist. In his place, a towering black demon manifested, eyes leaking purple smoke, thick curving horns twisting up from its brow and hazy dark wings arching from both shoulders. It swooped into the battle with a shriek of glee.

At the same time, the sky seemed to slip and break and a handful of stars, white-hot and piercing, streaked down leaving wavering tails of heat like ribbons behind them. The storm cloud reformed, sinister and huge. Lightning strobed through the battle and trees, up-rooted and animated, pummeled the fel Orc battalion with unforgiving wrath.

Through it all, Beln watched Samoj, dagger in one hand, ax in the other, leap and slash and dodge and twist as though nothing could touch him.

It was over in less than a minute. All that remained beneath the storm-cloud was charred ground and the four combatants. Vedenrith was swaying on his knees, holding his throat, blood drooling thickly from his open mouth. Aetos, no longer demonic, rushed to his side, tearing a great swathe of fabric from his own robes and holding it under the Death Knight's broken jaw. Samoj stood relatively hale, nodding with approval at the corpses.

Ironcore lay on her side, a halo of black blood pooling ever wider around her head. Khemat and Beln saw her at the same time and reached her simultaneously.

"Are you crazy?" snapped the healer as she raised Ironcore's head into her lap. The black Druid coughed.

"No. Just… wanted to get the job done right. Go… help Vedenrith. I'll be fine."

"Fine!" choked Beln, eyes wide. He had never imagined seeing her like this. She reached over and patted his hand.

"Looks worse than it is, love," she croaked. Beln eyed Khemat over her head. The white Druid nodded.

"She wore herself out."

"And got clocked with my own mace," she moaned, trying to reach behind her to touch the tender spot on the back of her head. "Damn Orc got ahold of it." Khemat closed her eyes and raised both hands. It was as though the ground was raining into the sky, long strings of energy pulled from the earth itself in silver skeins. Beln felt them in his flesh, knitting and relaxing and mending. All around them, eyes brightened, backs straightened, wounds closed and haggard expressions relented.

Medarion pushed himself fully upright, vision clearing. The ache in his head had faded to a dull pressure. Slowly, wonderingly, he looked around.

"Beln," he said, seeing his erstwhile questing partner. "And Ilsa," he murmured, watching the huntress coo to her hyena as she cleaned the wound in her haunch. Slender arms encircled his waist and white hair blocked his sight. "Tialla!" He felt tears on his neck and hugged the woman harder. "I'm here, I'm here, I'll never leave. By Elune, I will never leave you again."

A crunch broke the demi-silence. All eyes turned to see the first wagon, partially afire, inch forward.

"What?" said Marley, struggling up, leaning on Khemat's staff.

The front half of the wagon pulled apart, wood cracking and splitting. The kodo harnessed to the vehicle lowed, half-mad with fear and the smell of blood.

Gloved hands took the reins.

"Almost," said a voice and slapped them down hard on the animal's back. The cart jolted forward and the group was momentarily too stunned by the survival of this one fel Orc to realize what was happening. Then the detatched back half of the cart blazed up and shed an orange glow on the contents of the front half, lashed with chains against the seat.

"_Pelcyr!!_" screamed Medarion and lunged toward the cart. His weight landed on his broken foot and he collapsed, coming down hard on his forearms. "Pelcyr! Nooo! _Noooooo!! PELCYR!!_"

Vedenrith struggled up, pointing, eyes wide, unable to speak. Desperately he scribbled something in the sand with one finger and Aetos leapt to his feet, horror dawning in his eyes.

"_Pelcyr!_ Nooo! My sister! Noooo!" Medarion crawled forward, desperate, until Tialla grabbed him round the shoulders.

"She's dead, Medarion," the Druid wept. "They killed her."

"_We've got to stop him!_" yelled Aetos, staring at the word in the sand, and whether it was the tone of his voice or some Warlock power, every member of the group felt terror like steely fingers grip their chest.

"_He's a necromancer!!_"


	15. Where Do We Go From Here?

**A/N:** Insert usual apologies regarding tardiness, multiply by five… hundred. Real Life Priorities got in the way of fan-fiction writing (though fan-fiction is WAY MORE FUN than Real Life Priorities, I do want to attend grad school so I do need to study & put Academic Things on my resume & a bunch of other hooey that has nothing to do with changing into a lion or killing zombies- sadly).

So, this is the final chapter of Common Ground (plus Epilogue). I hope y'all like it! One life ends in sacrifice, another takes an unexpected turn, Samoj tanks, Beln thinks, Tialla surprised, and all eyes turn to Northrend. Enjoy!

**Chapter 15 – Where Do We Go From Here?**

The cart lurched forward, the terrified kodo surging in the traces. A thick black whip came down on the beast's shoulders and it burst into a wild gallop, pulling away from them with tremendous speed. Beln watched in momentary, stunned paralysis as the lifeless body of his friend was carried further and further beyond his reach.

"Beln!" Ironcore grabbed his wrist. "With me, now!" She dropped into her bear form and he climbed astride without question. He had never ridden a bear but he had seen others with harnessed and armoured bear mounts, though he was dead certain none of them had been Druids. He fisted his hands in her coarse fur and gripped his legs around her ribs. Ironcore barreled after the disappearing cart. Beside them, he saw Khemat shapeshift into a rangy feline form and bolt, delicate pads tapping a counter-point to Ironcore's enormous paws.

Ahead of them, the cart shook and bounced over the rough terrain, but they were gaining on it. Beln took a brief glance over his shoulder- Tialla still held Medarion's shoulders, Vedenrith leaned heavily on Aetos, Marley slumped between Tologrin and Ilsa. They plunged away into the darkness and Beln hung on, relying on the two Druids to accurately follow the retreating necromancer and his grisly cargo. He was sure the rest of the group could track them between Ilsa and Tialla. He and Ironcore could bring the man to bay, Khemat could keep them alive, and they could… what? The warrior swallowed and narrowed his eyes, fixing his sight on the fleeing cart.

A deep, hollow wail filled the night. It set Beln's teeth on edge, sent a thrill of adrenaline pounding through him and he had the instinctive, primal urge to _run_. Ironcore must have felt something similar, as she went from gallop to flat-out sprint. The sound came again and then Beln felt the ground shake through Ironcore's powerful frame. Something enormous was here with them.

Ironcore weighed her options quickly: turn and fight and lose Pelcyr completely, or follow the necromancer, and abandon Samoj and the others to the worst sort of luck. _Pelcyr is beyond my help, beyond all help but a decent burial,_ it sorrowed her to think such, but it was the truth. _I cannot leave the others._ Beln yelped as she whirled her ursine bulk.

The bellow made Thorns drop to her belly and whine, eyes rolling in fear. Ilsa felt the same way, but she only cringed, hand clutching the dark leather of Marley's armour with renewed intensity. She felt the Forsaken tense, fingers fumbling for his knives.

"What was that?" asked Tologrin in a tiny voice, her luminous eyes round with terror. Samoj slowly uncoiled from his crouch, stretching up to his full height.

"Dat be bad," he said softly and widened his stance abruptly as the earth trembled and resonated. "You!" he pointed at Aetos, "Get heem over he-ah, now!" The Warlock nodded and murmured to Vedenrith, who was now rigid with attention, staring into the ruddy darkness. They moved, awkwardly, slowly, to join the others.

Ilsa thought the land itself moved, and had she voiced it, no one would have disbelieved her as pieces of Outland were wont to break off and drift, contemptuous of gravity. But it wasn't a shard of the broken world that bore down on them. It was a machine.

The thing was massive, a mountain of fel iron hewn with glowing sigils, targeting Samoj and his square of totems with eerie speed, so huge it reared head and shoulders above the jagged foothills. Nothing so enormous should have moved with such swiftness but it did, hydraulics pummeling the shattered ground, lurching appendages out-stretched for the silent Troll. It wailed once again, a long sepulchral howl full of warning and finality. Samoj stood his ground even as the others sat for fear of being tossed off their feet.

"Stay down," he ordered, without turning to look at them, "an' stay behind me."

"What is that thing?" hissed Ilsa, addressing Aetos and Vedenrith.

The Warlock was staring at the demonic machine with something disturbingly close to rapture. "A Fel Reaver," he whispered in awe. "Siege engine of the Burning Legion."

"And coming straight for us!" Ilsa gasped.

"Stay down!" came Samoj's order again, more urgently than before and the Shaman raised his axe and his dagger, fists glowing with ominous spiritual strength. Electricity crackled around his hands and then streaked up, striking the Reaver in a pale arc. The machine convulsed and bellowed and raised its gigantic fists over the Troll. One of his totems spat a gob of flame that splashed harmlessly off its armour and Samoj danced aside as the juggernaut pounded metal knuckles into the brittle earth. The impact jolted the entire group, but the Shaman moved effortlessly. He lunged forward, howling a warcry that raised the hair on the back of Ilsa's neck, and hacked into the construct's armoured forearm with the axe. It reared back, the Troll resolutely gripping his weapon as it yanked him thirty feet into the air.

The Shaman sank his dagger in above the axe, putting the wicked knife into the labyrinth of hoses and cables that formed the Fel Reaver's elbow joint. The machine bent the arm, trying to trap him or his weapons, but Samoj ripped the axe free and swung, letting go of the dagger at the last possible moment to flip backwards, pushing off of the Reaver's forearm. He landed hard but upright, grinning madly at the demonic machine as it reeled back, off-balance.

Then it kicked him.

Samoj lost his axe, tossed head over heels, aware only of the burst of agony in his abdomen where the construct's spike-shod foot had caught him. He landed, bounced, skidded and flopped over face-first.

"Samoj!" Ilsa screamed, horrified. She dropped Marley and swung her bow off her back, baring her teeth. "Thorns!" she cried, "_Stay._" She ran forward, to the edge of the warm glow put out by Samoj's square of totems and took aim. The Fel Reaver was mere steps from the Shaman.

"Tink I made it mad," she heard him groan and then he rolled to his feet, a warm green glow emanating from his hand, clasped to his stomach. He was grimacing but focused. Nevertheless, Ilsa let her arrow fly. It thudded home with grim accuracy, burying its steel head in the same joint that Samoj had left his dagger in. The machine twitched but did not turn. Ilsa scrambled to nock another arrow.

"Com on den," taunted the Shaman and spat. "You don't scare me." It swung both fists downward again but Samoj was ready. He twisted aside and pounced up the Fel Reaver's arm, ripped his dagger free as he scrambled by and wrapped long arms around the trio of pylons above the machine's shoulders. It swiveled and swatted at him, but couldn't reach him.

Ilsa saw his axe, half-buried in the reddish dust kicked up by their combat. She glanced up at the Reaver; it was still pawing at Samoj, who was using the brute's enormous bulk to his advantage. She darted forward and grabbed the axe.

"Samoj! Catch!" Ilsa had never thrown an axe before and judging from the make of the weapon, it was not meant to be aerodynamic. But she hurled it anyway. Samoj ducked down and it clanged off the pylon beside him. He groped for it and came up triumphant.

The Fel Reaver saw Ilsa and bellowed furiously. She froze. It loomed above her, green steam flaring from vents opened in rage. She wanted to move, to run, but it held her transfixed, huge and terrible and so very close. Her breath caught in her throat.

Something struck her in the ribs, shoving her off her feet, arms wrapped around her in a vice grip as they rolled together on the hard soil. Ilsa struggled to sit up, gasping, the spell broken, and found Marley on top of her, pinning her down with more strength than his lanky body seemed capable of housing. Another figure barreled past them and she recognized Vedenrith's dark armour. The Fel Reaver turned its attention to the charging Death Knight.

"Th-thanks," she managed and helped the Rogue hobble back to his feet. Vedenrith was keeping the gigantic machine distracted, chopping at its feet and dodging blows while Samoj rode its shoulders, axe and dagger flashing intermittently as he hacked about its back and head. For all the strength and determination of the two men, they seemed to be making very little progress.

Ilsa rolled to her feet, checked her bow and pulled another arrow.

"Aetos!" she called, "What does it take to kill these things?" The Warlock was summoning, surrounded by shifting purple runes. He shook his head.

"Remove its heart." Ilsa glanced aside to see Khemat, eyes narrowed at the monstrosity.

"It has a _heart_?"

The healer nodded. Beln appeared at her side, then Ironcore behind him, a smudge in the darkness. Ilsa aimed carefully and loosed, the arrow disappearing through the slats of the grate covering the Reaver's chest. It did not hesitate or acknowledge the attack but Ilsa thought she saw the glowing interior flicker just a little.

"Let Vedenrith take the demon's wrath," Khemat advised, as Beln tightened the straps on his shield. "You are not experienced enough and I have no wish to see you killed. Help Samoj." The Draenei looked up to where the determined Shaman was clinging one-handed to a pipe protruding from the Reaver's back, dagger between his teeth, axe flying in his other fist. Sparks flew when the blade impacted. Beln took off his shield and started forward, then paused and pulled off his cape as well. The machine had so many moving parts; he didn't want to become tangled in them.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw Ironcore nod, the hulking shape of her bear form giving way to the lower, sleeker silhouette of a lion. He turned back, saw Vedenrith dive and roll to avoid a stomp that jostled Samoj into the air and jogged sideways until he was facing the machine's back. Ironcore prowled beside him. They shared a quick look and she bared her long teeth in a feral grin. They charged in silence.

Beln had no idea how to climb the towering Reaver and doubted he would be as agile on the machine's back as barefoot Samoj was, or Ironcore's leonine form was proving to be. She bounded up the construct, claws finding gaps in the armour, four paws giving her more points of contact and greater stability. Beln stayed on the ground behind the behemoth and focused on its legs. It moved more swiftly than something of its size should have, but not fast enough to be dangerous to him standing at its back. He moved with the machine as it punched and kicked at Vedenrith and squinted at the knee closest to him. The joint was lined with tubes and wires, with a sheathed bundle of cables in the midst. Behind that, Beln glimpsed an oiled metal shaft and a brief flash of a flat socket. He side-stepped, trying to keep one eye on the Reaver and one on where Vedenrith was leading the thing.

He didn't understand a lot about machinery and he wasn't even sure the Fel Reaver was entirely a machine, but it seemed like a solid strategy to injure its joints and immobilize it. Beln slashed at the bundle of cables, cutting a handful loose. He hurried after the Reaver as it pursued Vedenrith. Beln glimpsed the man between the construct's knees; he could hear the Death Knight's ragged breathing. He jabbed his sword into the joint again, slashing back and forth two-handed, heedless of style.

A green bolt of fire smashed into the back of the machine's other knee and Beln looked round to see Tialla, shaking with fatigue, her tear-streaked face set in grim resolution. The blast didn't seem to have much of an effect, but it gave him an idea.

"Medarion!" he hailed and the mage crept forward to lean on his lover. Beln hastily leapt aside as the Reaver stepped backwards. "Medarion! Frostbolt!"

The mage nodded and a haze of ice fog wrapped his hands, propelling a jet of searing cold into the depth of the moving parts. There was a grinding, straining sound and then the ice covering the metal broke apart. Beln put all his strength behind a thrust and cut through the rest of the cables, leaving their frayed ends splayed around the exposed shaft. The machine bellowed right above him and Beln staggered, wincing at the sound.

Vedenrith saw the Fel Reaver begin to turn, attention drawn to the Draenei and two Night Elves scrambling desperately out of its way. His jaw was throbbing with every breath and every step but his hand was firm on the hilt of his sword. He summoned strength from the runes, spreading an aura of death from the spot where he stood, threatening the Reaver with insinuations of decay and defeat, and it glared back toward him. He ran sideways, the earth beneath his feet crumbling, disabused of life or the will to live. The machine came after him, swinging fists the size of houses.

Beln saluted though he doubted Vedenrith saw it. He turned to Medarion.

"Again, as much as you can." This time the frostbolt caused the machine's left leg to seize up completely, bringing it to an un-balanced, whining halt. Even as it attempted to pivot, Ironcore slid down its front, talons catching on the grate covering its chest. She drew her lips back as the heat within the thing enveloped her face, scorching her whiskers and grasped the slats between her teeth. The machine staggered, still twisting to face Beln and Medarion but now bringing one arm up to smash the druid clinging to its chest.

"Ho no!" snarled Samoj and jammed his dagger into the shoulder joint, driving it deeper with quick, successive blows from his axe. Metal shrieked against metal. The arm halted in its progression and Ironcore ignored the blast of hot, stinking air, wrenching with all the strength of her shapeshifted muscles. The grate groaned and bent. There was a crack and Samoj's dagger snapped. The arm swung forward with unfettered speed, too fast for Ironcore to react. It crashed across her, crushing her against the furnace in its chest. She yowled, sucking in the smell of burning fur and flesh, thrashing against the strength of the demonic machine, but it wasn't holding her as tightly as she would have imagined.

Out the corner of her eye she saw Khemat, in her bear form, jaws locked on the Reaver's hand, straining to hold it back. She must have caught it when the dagger stopped the machine from initially crushing Ironcore and the darker druid intensified her squirming until she was free. Before the Reaver could retaliate at the pale healer, Khemat scuttled backwards and Ironcore leapt on the machine's injured shoulder.

"Aetos!" Beln hollered. "Fireball! Here!" He pointed to the Reaver's left knee where Medarion had frozen the metal to a standstill. The Warlock, now accompanied by a ragged-looking Imp, gathered his magic and unleashed a torrent of flame. Metal popped and squealed, going from sub-zero to forge-hot in seconds. Beln saw the shaft warp and jammed his sword into the gap that formed between the metal 'femur' and 'tibia'.

Vedenrith lead the monster one step forward and Beln saw his chance. He threw his weight on the pommel of the sword, using the weapon as a lever and the Reaver's momentum as it swung round after the Death Knight against it. There was a shriek of deforming metal and the shaft, weakened by the onslaught of cold and heat, shifted off its axis, twisting out of the slot that allowed the machine bend its knee.

It staggered for a moment, trying to prop its enormous weight on the broken joint in a way that would allow it to remain upright. But Ironcore and Samoj hung from the machine's right shoulder, and as Beln slammed his armoured bulk against the Reaver's forward leg, he saw Ilsa, then Tologrin, then Tialla in her bear form, scale the construct's back and throw their own weight forward along with the druid and shaman.

The Fel Reaver resisted, tilted, tipped and with a wail of fury, went down. Beln was thrown off his feet by the impact. He saw Tologrin fall hard, face-first, near him and felt someone else land a hair's breadth from him. He sat up, blinking at the haze of dust the machine had raised.

It had fallen on its front and even now, attempted to push itself up. Ironcore and Samoj were still on top of its right shoulder, worrying the wires and tubing within the damaged joint with savage teeth and clever hands.

Beln remembered Khemat's words and scrambled over the downed construct's back to where he supposed a heart would be. His sword was still caught in its knee, but he had his throwing daggers and he used one to pry at a panel seeping green, ill-flavoured fog. Aetos was beside him with a sharp little knife as well, and then Ilsa. Beln forced his hand into the gap they created and hauled on the metal, grunting and straining until the panel peeled back with a groan.

The machine bellowed, furious now and strident with something akin to panic. The steam that billowed out of the open portal seared Beln's hand through the thick leather of his glove and he ground his jaws together, forcing his fist deeper into the hole.

"Where is it?" he shouted, catching sight of Khemat's pale form. "How do we get to the heart?" She was kneeling in the angle created by the Reaver's torso and outflung, useless arm, the one that Samoj and Ironcore had at last rendered immobile.

"It-" she began, but the Fel Reaver didn't give her a chance to finish. It straightened its uninjured arm and leg with a lurch, sending Beln, Aetos and Ilsa tumbling down its back. Beln saw Ironcore and Samoj leap away from its broken shoulder, saw Aetos' imp grab his belt and haul him backwards as the machine thrashed its legs, and then it flung itself over on its back.

There was a sudden burst of golden light and a muffled wail of agony.

"_Khemat! Khemat!_" Ironcore was screaming, desperate in a way Beln had never heard her, and he realized with sick certainty that the Reaver had rolled over on top of the other druid. "Help me get it up! Get it off her!"

"Tologrin!" That was Marley, one hand on Ilsa's hip, the other on Thorns' back. "She was under there too!" But the infernal machine was not yet dead and it struck at them, keeping them back. Beln thought he heard sobbing from beneath it and bared his teeth. Fury overwhelmed his fatigue, abolished his pain and he roared, plunging up the sheer fel iron side of the Reaver without a single mis-step, swinging his sword over his head. It was a poor attack form from a defense perspective, but the demonic machine had other worries. Beln saw the gaping, forge-hot square in its chest where Ironcore had torn the furnace grate away, saw a flicker of movement at his elbow and realized Samoj was with him, howling with bloodlust.

They reached the Reaver's unprotected chest simultaneously and sank their weapons together into the thing's infernal heart. There was a deafening pulse of sound like a geyser without heat or steam and a pillar of green light poured upwards out of the construct's riven chest. Beln and Samoj dived off it, landing side-by-side in the red dirt, eyes wide, hair standing on end with dual ferocity and the strength of the Reaver's dying blast of power.

The night became eerily silent. For a moment, the Warrior and the Shaman lay propped on their elbows, not daring to breathe as the dust settled around them. Then Beln struggled up, legs shaking, leaning on his sword and extended his other hand to Samoj. The Troll accepted it with a cough and staggered to his feet beside the Draenei.

It took all of them- even Marley with one useful leg and Medarion who could barely stand- to move the Reaver's corpse enough to reach Khemat. Ironcore and Samoj wriggled under the construct's bulk and together hauled the white Druid to safety. She was in her bear form, curled into a tight ball, muscles rigid, broken and bleeding and sobbing even in her feral guise.

"Beln," Ironcore whispered, "what you did for me- on the ocean- the power of your people-"

"Of course," he replied and drew on his link to the Naaru. The sigil appeared above his brow and Beln's hands glowed briefly with white light that passed to the Tauren. Ironcore knelt beside her friend, pouring her strength out in twining green energy as Aetos held Khemat's hand and murmured useless, comforting words.

At last, her body relaxed, uncurling and changing form. The Cenarion druid was still weeping and as Ironcore and Aetos each put an arm around her to help her sit up, they saw why: within Khemat's embrace was Tologrin. The Blood Elf paladin was motionless, her perfect features serene despite a messily broken nose. Her bright blond hair splayed around her helmetless head in a halo and her chest didn't move.

"She's dead," gasped Khemat, a familiar sorrow and horror filling her brown eyes, "She- she was already injured and she cast a ward on me as the Reaver fell, the ward that takes my pain onto herself." The druid turned away and covered her face with her hands. "Poor little child. I tried to protect her and I utterly failed." Ironcore murmured words of sympathy in Taura'he and watched Marley stumble forward to the body of his peer and rival. Ilsa helped him kneel down and he gazed at Tologrin wordlessly.

Ironcore caught Samoj's eye. He was exhausted and banged up, but his stance was steady and his frown determined.

"Samoj, Beln," she said, then saw Ilsa straighten up with an awkward pat on Marley's shoulder, "Ilsa. There is still something we must do. One tragedy we can prevent."

"I'm coming with you," croaked Medarion, hobbling over to her under his own strength. He looked down at the dead Paladin and swallowed hard. "She didn't know Pelcyr. She didn't even want to be here. She came anyway. If Pelcyr is dead, I want to bring her b-back to Ashenvale where she belongs."

Ironcore only nodded.

"Aetos, Tialla, keep them safe," she said, "We will return."

She shifted into bear form again but this time Beln shook his head and helped Medarion seat himself on the druid's back with no small trepidation. They left half of their group in grief beside the wrecked Fel Reaver and set off into the waning night, the pale promise of dawn at their backs.

Samoj and Ilsa lead the group in silence, both expertly tracking the necromancer's flight. Thorns ranged ahead of the huntress, nose to the ground. The hyena stopped, pawed at her face and sneezed, snorting in distaste. Ilsa peered at the ground and patted her pet, then pointed north. The group followed without words.

Beln was lost in thought, shocked by Tologrin's death. He had held no special affection or even respect for the Blood Elf. He had not known her well enough to overcome the violent shared history of their races, nor was he sure he would have wanted to. But she had chosen to accompany Ironcore and Marley and she had sacrificed herself for Khemat, and those things alone made him sorry he had not known her better. _What a complicated place this world is,_ he thought in a rare moment of sober contemplation. _We are all so different and yet…_ Beln looked over at Medarion, fists clenched in Ironcore's thick fur, eyes fixed on the horizon. Then he turned to see Samoj, focused on the task at hand, but still bleeding from a burn on one shoulder. Beside him paced the human huntress, unperturbed by the looming Troll. _We've all lost something and found something_.

It was full dawn by the time Samoj and Ilsa stopped walking and crouched behind a scraggly patch of desert vegetation, pointing to a fortified dome hut built in the lee of a towering cliff. Orcs- red Orcs- patrolled the area lazily in ones and twos. Smoke rose from a hole in the roof and even from this distance, Beln could sense foul magic. Thorns whined quietly, little brush tail tucked between her haunches.

"I know," muttered Ilsa, stroking the hyena's neck, "I feel the saw way. Whatever's going on in there, it isn't good."

"So what's our strategy?" asked Beln, turning to Ironcore. She had let Medarion slip from her back and stood in her natural Tauren form, chewing her lip and watching the guard's movements. Ilsa looked over her shoulder, waiting for the Druid's response.

"Whatever is inside that hut," she said finally, "is infinitely more dangerous than the guards out here. We need to get them to come to us, preferably individually and quietly, and ambush whatever lies within. We'll start with the ones near the back."

This proved to be a difficult endeavour. The first guard they targeted yelped when Ilsa shot him with an arrow, attracting the attention of a second Orc, whom Medarion quickly silenced with a frostbolt. However, now they had two blatantly visible bodies.

"Shadowmeld," hissed Ilsa to Medarion hurriedly, "and pull them back around the side of the-"

There was a grunt of surprise and they found themselves with a third guard, who had noticed the lifeless, horizontal state of his companions and come to investigate. He failed to notice, however, Samoj, who had climbed the hut like a lizard to out-flank him. The Troll broke his neck before the guard could react to turquoise hands around his jaws.

Medarion vanished into the rising sun and soon the most distant body seemed to inch of its own accord into the shadow. He had just started pulling the second body out of sight when another of the guards caught on. This one was damnably more intelligent that the other and instead of coming over to investigate, he bellowed a warning at the top of his lungs.

Suddenly the air was full of whizzing arrows and balls of fire and throwing knives but the damage was done.

"Inside the hut!" roared Ironcore. "Beln! Keep them off us! Ilsa, Medarion, focus on killing whatever is in that building! Samoj, keep its attention and, Earthmother help me, I will try to keep us all alive."

There was no grace or organization to their assault. Beln flipped his shield onto his forearm and gave a blood-curdling shout, instantly earning the attention of every remaining guard, plus two from inside the hut that rushed out just as Medarion motioned with one hand and sent a pulse of deadly arcane power spinning out from himself. That took out the two guards, allowing Samoj to plunge past, snarling with a visceral intensity only a Troll could produce. Ilsa followed, brandishing her sword, Thorns by her side.

Beln couldn't see what the foursome saw as they burst through the leather doorflap. He put his back to it, gritted his teeth and flung his shield up to fend off a spinning throwing ax.

Samoj had been a fighter all his life and he had seen some terrible things on the battlefield. He was not prepared for the sight that greeted him as he pounced through the doorway, weapons flashing.

Pelcyr lay on her back, naked, arms crossed over her chest, candles burning at her feet and the crown of her head. Before her, shocked into immobility, stood an Orc dressed in the red cowl and skeletal trappings of a Necromancer. For the briefest moment, the Shaman and the Necromancer stared at each other.

"You know," said Samoj, gesturing with his dagger, "dey don't actually need to be undressed. My people been resurre'ting stuff fo' years an' dis I know. You're sick." Then he clocked the baffled Orc with his axe. Or he was hoping to, except the weapon struck an unseen barrier and bounced off, even as Samoj repeated the attempt with his dagger. A fireball and then an arrow splashed off the shield and the Orc began to laugh.

"You savage idiots," rasped the Necromancer, "You think you can harm _me_? I have made my peace with Death- I welcome it and it has strengthened me for my faith!" He made a gesture with one hand and Samoj found himself hurled backwards against the wall of the hut, something invisible coiling around his throat, cutting off his breath and unbreakable. He heard Ilsa's panicked gasping and Medarion's furious wheezes as they both suffered the spell. Ironcore's heavy form slammed down beside him and he saw her fists aglow with the only force keeping them all alive.

Then the rising sun seemed to vanish. The hut sank into utter blackness, save for the wobbling flames of the Necromancer's candles. All Samoj could see through failing vision was a black shadow that rose up from the floor, climbed the painted walls of the building, towered above the laughing Necromancer and Samoj froze with terror and confusion.

"You… fool… ish… man…" whispered the shadow with the voice of a corpse pulled unwilling from the earth. Ironcore dug her nails into Samoj's arm in fear. "You… called… me? _You_… called… _me?_" The flickering candle flames danced wildly for a moment and were snuffed out by a creeping cold that spread from the blackness. "Pow… er… less… and… _ignorant_!" hissed the shadow and the spell began to falter on Samoj's throat. "You called me… and you… expect me… to _lie idly by… while you… MURDER MY FRIENDS?_"

And the shadow reached out one long, delicate hand towards the Necromancer, bathed now in her own cold, violet light, smiling cruelly at the surprised Orc. Pelcyr Woodsgrace snapped forward, forcing her hand between the Necromancer's jaws, grabbed hold of something incorporeal and with a shriek of fury, she ripped his living soul from his body.

The blackness lifted. The Necromancer toppled to the dirt floor, lifeless. Samoj slowly sat up, rubbing his throat. Beside him, Ironcore rolled over, hardly daring to breathe. Across the hut, Ilsa helped Medarion to his knees. None of them said anything.

Beln toppled backwards through the leather doorflap, kicking and cursing loudly, slashing at the two guards who bore him down. Silence broken, Samoj leaped into the fray, joined by Ilsa and Thorns.

Medarion leaned against the wall, staring at his sister. She stood rigid, her hand still outstretched, fingers clenched. Her eyes were wide open in shock but they were no longer the tranquil glowing silver that he recognized. Now they were yellow.

"Pelcyr?" he whispered and stepped forward, dizzy, "You- you're- alive!" He threw his arms around her and felt her jump, then hug him back fiercely.

"Actually," she replied into his hair, "I don't think I am. Exactly."

* * *

Marley had politely declined the water that Khemat had offered him.

"You may be undead," she said gently, "but I know you still get thirsty."

"It's a mental reaction," he said quietly. "Or something. I never figured it out. I don't _need_ to drink."

The Druid nodded and left him where he sat, staring into the campfire, cross-legged now that his splintered shin was mended. Marley looked up briefly from the flames to the Priestess standing with her back to him across the campsite. _So this was the reason we came all the way here_, he thought, watching the undead Night Elf toy with her long braid. _What is she now?_

Pelcyr was wondering the same thing. They had returned to the broken Reaver and made camp right there. The others had fallen asleep almost instantly despite it now being midday, as they were physically exhausted and emotionally wiped, but Pelcyr did not feel tired. _Undead don't sleep_, she thought and turned to catch the yellow-eyed Rogue quickly looking away. She smiled and walked over to sit beside him.

"Hey," she said, "Can I ask you a bunch of really personal questions?"

Marley drew back, vaguely insulted. "No, you may not."

"But you're the only undead person here-"

"The Death Knight is undead."

"I'm glad someone finally clarified that. But he's in that tent over there with the Warlock _and_ the Huntress and I don't think any of them want me to barge in and ask if I can chew my nails."

"You need permission to chew your nails?"

"Well, no, I just want to know if they're going to grow back or if I'm just going to… slowly decay." Marley hunched his shoulders and returned to staring at the fire.

"I guess we probably would fall apart eventually. But the Dark Lady keeps us whole." He looked up. "Like you fixed my leg. We have Shadow Priests and necromancers of our own to... well, as healers, I guess. Ironcore and Khemat couldn't fix me because they're Druids. Druids use nature, life, things that grow and change, to do their magic. Our bodies don't grow or change or repair themselves."

"But I used my Holy-"

"Just because I'm undead doesn't mean I'm evil!" Marley snapped. Pelcyr leaned away from him.

"I didn't mean that, I just don't understand how my Holy powers are still accessible even though I was brought back to life by dark arts."

"Maybe you weren't trying to be mean, but that's what you _meant_," said Marley adamantly. "Dark arts. I don't like being this way. I want to go back to my little brother and my parents' farm and not have dogs run away from me. But I can't. But that doesn't mean I can't be… a good person. That's why your Holy magic worked. You believe, and so do I."

Pelcyr blinked. "I'm sorry," she said with complete sincerity. "I didn't know that." She dropped her pointed chin into her hands. "I don't know anything anymore. And I can't Shadowmeld anymore, either. I tried."

"I bet you can talk in Gutterspeak though," said Marley and Pelcyr shrugged.

"I'll probably have to learn it."

Marley laughed. "No, you just understood me."

"Of course I- wait, you were speaking… that?"

"Yes."

"Oh. But I thought that language was only spoken by the Forsaken?"

"Well, you're undead, right?"

"Yes, but-"

"And you have your own will, right?"

"Yes…"

"So you're Forsaken."

"But you're all human," she said, clearly distressed. Marley laughed again.

"No we aren't! Sylvanas isn't human- neither are her Dark Rangers." Pelcyr sat up a little straighter and looked at Marley out of the corner of her glowing yellow eyes.

"What do you think _she'll_ think of me?" said Pelcyr uncertainly. Marley shrugged.

"Just tell her you hate the Scourge and want to join the fight against Arthas and you'll be fine."

* * *

Pelcyr and Marley were still sitting together, tending the fire, when Ironcore woke that evening. She hadn't bothered to put up a tent; she simply turned into a lion and sprawled on the sand. Beln had pulled off most of his armour and flopped down beside her, and was still comatose.

The druid moved over to the fire, greeting the two Forsaken with a smile. When she dug in Aetos' pack and pulled out a tripod and blackened kettle, Pelcyr hurried to find tea in Medarion's knapsack and soon the three were enjoying a cup of evening mint tea.

"Ironcore," began Pelcyr, "Marley and I were talking all night. He wants to go to Northrend. I want to go too, but before that I want to go to Undercity. Can you take me? I… I don't want to get lost and I don't know how welcome I would be without someone else from the Horde."

Ironcore smiled. "Pelcyr," she said, "I would be honoured to guide you to Undercity and proud to welcome you to the Horde." The Priestess' smile faltered and she looked down at her tea.

"I'll never see Darnassus again, will I?" she said softly. "I mean, I'm still _kaldorei_ but I'm not…"

Beln plopped down beside Ironcore and leaned around her to address Pelcyr. "I thought I'd never see Draenor again," he said quietly. "And then when we were planning to come here to bring you back all I could think of was how horrific it would be to see my people's world destroyed by the Burning Legion. I thought it would be like losing it all over again. But you know… it's still here. All the horror that happened and there's still a world and even Shattrath, a big city!" He reached over to pat her shoulder.

"Eventually, you'll get back to Darnassus. Life seems to have a weird way of getting you home again." Pelcyr felt a slight burning sensation in her eyes and blinked.

"I don't think I've ever heard you say so much at once before," she teased. "So it must be true." Beln chuckled.

The others rose and joined them in ones and twos, sharing tea and quiet thoughts. Slowly, the party began to break up. Khemat bade them farewell and departed carrying Tologrin's body, wrapped in the white Druid's cloak, through a portal to Silvermoon City that Medarion drew up for her. Aetos vowed to meet up with her at a camp the Cenarion Expedition had installed in the Borean Tundra, once he and Vedenrith had properly prepared Ilsa for the perils of Northrend by introducing her to the perils of Outland. The huntress gave Pelcyr a lop-sided, happily-suffering smile and set off in the company of her two guardians.

Marley set off for the Dark Portal, Samoj at his side, both intent on Northrend as a final destination. They intended to stop at Sen'Jin village for supplies and so Samoj could pick up his mate, Jashi.

"I will meet you again in Northrend, old friend," said Ironcore, clasping the Troll in a crushing embrace.

"Haha! We gonna make da Scourge flee like rabbits!" He kissed her enthusiastically on the mouth and laughed when Beln narrowed his eyes and growled under his breath. "You keep a good eye on dat elf too," he leered. "I tink we be seein' more of dis one in da months ta come…"

"He's talking about me, isn't he?" sighed Pelcyr, feigning annoyance. She whirled on the Troll and shook a playful finger in his face. "Just you wait until I learn Orcish. You'll keep that naughty mouth closed or I'll silence you." Ironcore burst out laughing.

"What?" said Samoj warily.

"Oh we'll have some fun in Northrend, I think," she replied and gave the Shaman a friendly shove. Pelcyr smirked at the Troll and turned to fall into her brother's embrace.

"I'm going to miss you so much," she whispered. Medarion nodded emphatically.

"I don't care what else you are, Pel. You'll always be my little sister. I love you." Pelcyr found her eyes burning again although Marley had explained that she could no longer cry.

"I love you too, big brother," she choked out. Then she pulled on Tialla's sleeve. "You'll take good care of him, won't you?"

"I'd better," said the Druid smugly, "I want my child to have her father around."

This was met with squeals, shrieks, congratulations and dropped jaws all around.

"I'm going to be an aunt!" chirruped Pelcyr with glee, bouncing up and down on the balls up her feet with excitement. "This is wonderful!" She flung herself on Tialla, laughing, and drew the other Night Elf away, chattering happily.

Ironcore and Beln were left facing each other, both still smiling stupidly from Tialla's news. The druid gently took the warrior's hands in hers. "I will come to you in Northrend once I've brought Pelcyr to Sylvanas," she vowed. "We've spent so much time apart."

"I will miss you," said Beln, slipping his arms around her hips, "And I will wait impatiently for you to join me." Ironcore leaned closer, eyes closing to green slits.

"Don't be too impatient," she murmured, "You're going to need all your strength and stamina when I get up there with you."

"Oh I do hope that's a promise," he returned, pulling her against him.

"I'll write letters that will leave you sleepless," she purred, kneading his back with her powerful hands.

Beln laughed and didn't care who was watching and kissed her long and deep on the mouth.

~The End~

* * *

~Epilogue~

Snow stung Beln's cheeks through the scarf wrapped around his face. He squinted against the bitter wind and knifing crystals and struggled forward through the drifting snow. Or at least he hoped it was forward. The world was white and howling and he had lost all sense of direction. The blizzard continued unrelenting. He fumbled ahead of himself with his sword, stabbing at the ground to make sure he wasn't going to walk off the edge of a cliff or into a crevasse.

The mission had been simple enough: scout a perimeter around his new home base, Victory Ridge. The little Ashen Verdict outpost was located in the foothills- such edifices of stone could only be called something so mundane in comparison to their parent range- of the Storm Peaks. The mission was more to give him something to do than to patrol for potential threats, and to test his mettle in the hostile weather. Beln was quite sure he had never been colder in his life and he was also certain now that he was lost.

Not for the first time, he wished Ironcore had been allowed to join him, but in her capacity as the Cenarion Expedition's ambassador to Victory Ridge there was no reason for her to leave the outpost. Still, her communion with nature gave her an uncanny sense of direction and Beln missed her stoic presence.

Lost in self-pity, he literally tripped over the girl. One moment he was slogging forward, hating snow with every fibre of his being, and the next he was off balance and staggering to plant his feet before the wind threw him over completely. She was curled up in a tight little ball, the thin fur hood of her cloak pulled over her head, knees touching her brow, hands tucked between her thighs for warmth. At first he thought she was already dead, and then when she grunted and moved, he worried that he had injured her when he tripped.

"By the Light," he shouted to make himself heard over the bellowing storm, "what are you doing out here?" Her head snapped up and fear showed instantly in her eyes. She was Orcish, he was Draenei and she was clearly at a disadvantage. Being Orcish, the fear was quickly followed by a harder emotion and she struggled up, pulling an ax from her belt. Beln held up his hands hurriedly.

"I mean you no harm," he said in accented Orcish. "Come, this is no time or place for a fight."

She paused, the ax clearly shaking in her grasp and not from fear.

"Leave me alone," she snapped. The wind shifted abruptly, tossing her cloak up high off her back and over her head, blowing Beln's hair into a whirlwind. She fought her clothing back in place but he caught sight of the totems she carried in a sling under her cloak. He also saw the red stain she had been hiding that blossomed from beneath her left arm and across her chest.

"If I leave you out here, you're going to bleed out or freeze, and I'm not sure which would happen faster," he snapped. "So you can either get under my cloak and let me help you, or I'll tie you up and carry you back to Victory Ridge." _Providing, of course, that I can_ find_ Victory Ridge again…_ The Shaman hesitated, arms wrapped around herself, fangs chattering. She looked around the miserable landscape, then up at Beln, frowning down at her in polished armour and fur-lined cloak.

"I don't know why you're not killing me, and I don't know why you can speak Orcish," she snarled, "but I'm going to trust you, Draenei. Just this once. And if you double-cross me, I'll never forgive you, or your race, and I'll make sure I feed your remains to my Forsaken friends, and-"

"Okay, I get the idea," said Beln, rolling his eyes. "Get under the cloak." She obeyed, but only enough to get a shoulder under one fold. Beln groaned, yanked the Orc against his side and wrapped the cloak around her, tucking it into his belt so she couldn't escape. Predictably, she yowled and threatened him and struggled. "Look, if I had any ill intentions, you'd already be dead. Do you see the size of this sword?"

The Orc craned her head to look at the pommel Beln was tapping over his shoulder. She gulped.

"Exactly. So I don't want to kill you. I want to take you back to Victory Ridge where my friends can fix you up and feed you." She said nothing more and sagged against his hip. Beln stomped off in the direction he prayed Victory Ridge was in and concentrated on not tripping or shivering or doing anything that would make him appear less heroic.

"Why?" she croaked finally after a half hour spent plowing through shrieking wind and thigh-deep snow. "Why are you helping me?" Beln didn't answer for a while.

"Because you were cold and I have extra space under my cloak," he said finally. She snorted but said nothing more, clutching the thick fur wrap under her chin. "My name is Beln," he said, peering into the storm for any sign he was going the right direction.

"Tambora," muttered the Shaman grudgingly. After another eternity spent struggling along, she added, "Don't suppose you saw anyone else out there, eh?"

"Like the person who gave you that injury?" he asked. Tambora grumbled again.

"No. I fell and jabbed myself on a rock," she snorted. "Stupid. My idiot sister. Went off to pick Icethorn, if you can believe it. She sees the storm rolling in and she says she'll be fine. Stupid, stupid Warlock. Casters. Feh! Think they're invincible!" Beln had to chuckle.

"I know a mage or two that would fit that description," he said. And then to his delight, he spotted the black and white sun of the Ashen Verdict waving wildly in the freezing wind. _Thank the Naaru._ "Watch your step here. It's damn steep and slippery."

They descended together slowly. By the end, Beln was holding up Tambora's entire weight as she clutched his arm. As they approached, two guards materialized out of the storm to meet them.

"Hail!" bellowed one, a massive Tauren Death Knight named Bloodtower. Beside him was a Dwarven Paladin, bundled up to her misty gray eyes in white fur.

"What have ye there, Stormfist?" called the Paladin, Greshlyn.

Beln opened his cloak briefly. "Found her up in the steppes," he yelled in reply. Bloodtower bent down to peer at the Orc.

"Poor girl," he rumbled in his sepulchral voice. "Good thing you found her." Beln nodded and hauled Tambora through the heavy wooden gates into the fortress proper. The wind lessened immediately and Tambora struggled to walk on her own.

"Thought your name was Beln," she said mistrustfully, "Or are you lying to me?"

Beln blew out a long breath. "Beln was the name my parents gave me. Stormfist is the name my mate gave me," he explained. "Tauren have a tradition of giving their people Brave Names. She gave me mine after our first battle in Northrend. Now shut up and let me get you indoors."

He could feel her staring at him, trying to figure out if what he was saying had a gram of truth to it. Beln smiled a little to himself.

_"Watchin' you hit Scourge is like watchin' a storm strike a man wit' lightnin'," said Samoj, slapping Beln on the shoulder. "Dey don' even know what hit dem!" The battlefield testified the Troll's statement, although Beln was bent over, hands on his knees, panting with fatigue. But as he gasped for breath, he knew that around him his friends and allies still stood, every one of them. Samoj had a chip out of one tusk, Jashi was sporting a new scar on her shoulder, Pelcyr was complaining about a tear in her robes, Ironcore's mane was a little singed, and Vedenrith was fussing with a cut on Aetos' cheek, but they were alive. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Marley searching for the Cult of the Damned member he'd lost his dagger in, and hear Khemat chanting some mysterious rhyme to the trees that had been damaged in the fight. _

_ Ilsa brought Beln a waterskin, chuckling at Samoj's statement._

_ "Pretty bold imagery," she said, "maybe you should put that on your shield. The Argent Dawn insignia is a little out-dated."_

_ "I got that shield from Harlan," he said indignantly, "I don't care if it's fashionable or not, it has sentimental value."_

_ "It would make a good Brave Name, though," said Ironcore, shouldering her staff as she approached. Beln's eyes widened._

_ "Really?" he said, heart pounding. She'd promised him a Brave Name so long ago. He thought she might have forgotten, or that they were reserved solely for Tauren, no matter how much she loved him._

_ "Stormfist," she pronounced, and Jashi nodded her approval._

_ "Stormfist!"_

The door creaked as Beln pushed into the inn, announcing their arrival.

"Could use a healer-"

"Thrall's tusks, sister! Is that you?" Another female Orc, this one dressed richly in black and red robes that looked suspiciously like something Beln had seen Aetos wear, vaulted over a trestle table and slid to a stop in front them.

"YOU! You stupid Warlock!" spat the Shaman.

"I'm stupid? I'm not half-froze to death, you idiot!"

"Healer?" said Beln tiredly as the sisters snapped at each other.

"Unless Warlocks have learned to heal in the last several minutes," interrupted a welcome and familiar voice, "stand back and let me work," advised Ironcore, then lifted the Warlock up by her hood and set her aside. "Hello, lover," she whispered to Beln and gave him a quick peck on the lips before scooping up the bewildered Shaman and carting her off upstairs.

"Told you so," Beln mouthed at her over Ironcore's shoulder. Chuckling, he grabbed the Warlock's elbow and lead her over to the table where Pelcyr was up to her eyes in fluffy purple yarn, knitting sticks flashing precisely through what looked like a little wooly priestess robe. Marley scooted aside to let the Orc sit.

"Stupid Warlock, these are my friends. Friends, this is Stupid Warlock. I think that was her sister, Stupid Shaman, that Ironcore just hauled upstairs."

"My name is Tephra," growled the Warlock and banged her fist on the table. Then she took a closer look at Pelcyr and blinked. "You're a Night Elf, honey."

Pelcyr smiled cheerfully. "A Forsaken Night Elf. Look! My brother is bringing his family to Northrend so I'm knitting my niece a coat." Tephra the Warlock looked slowly from Beln, to Pelcyr, then to Marley.

"This is the strangest inn I've ever stayed at," she pronounced finally, then turned back to Beln. "Lucky for my sister."

"You're welcome," said the Draenei and sat down for a well-deserved hot cider.

* * *

**Author's Final Notes:** Well, this makes me a little misty-eyed. I had a great time writing this story and I am still tickled that so many other people enjoyed it too! Thanks for reading and, wow, thank you for your patience when the space between updates stretched into months.

Will there be a sequel? No, there won't be, despite the appearance of the _delightful_ Volcano Girls in the Epilogue (they would be fun to write about though). But… I am writing another WoW fan-fic! It will feature a couple of big canon characters, a slightly Alternate Universe, peculiar OC's, sex, and some darker themes which I will handle with humour, since I can't do real, wrist-slitting angst even if I try. ;)

Thank you for reading! Peace out.


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